THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


CHRISTINE,   AND   OTHER  POEM& 


1  But  she  calls  on  Christ,  and  the  kerchief  white 

Waves  fill  I  in  tin-  face  of  her  foe ! 
Hack  with  an  oath  reeled  the  Wizard  Knight, 
As  his  steed  crouched  low  in  tbe  wondrous  light 
Of  the  Santo  Sudario." 


PAOK  11C2. 


CHRISTINE : 


TROUBADOUR'S 


AND 


OTHER   POEMS 


BY 

GEORGE  H.  MILES. 


LAWRENCE     KEHOE, 

145   NASSAU   STREET. 
1866. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1866,  by 

LAWRENCE    KEHOE, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New-York. 


CONTENTS. 


PAOB 
CHRISTINE  7 

POEMS. 

RAPHAEL  SANZIO 137 

A  CARD  FROM  THE  VIOLETS    -.--.....  151 

THE  LAST  SNOW-WREATH 154 

MARCELLA        ............  157 

SHE  WILL  RETCRN 1G3 

"  UNDER  THE  TREE,  LOVE  "    -       -       -        - 166 

SAN  SISTO 171 

THE  ALBATROSS       ...        ........  175 

BEATRICE     ....  ........  179 

LA  VELATA 187 

THE  BIRD'S  SONG         -  -• 189 

INKERMASN      .............  192 

DONNA -       ~  209 

BLIGHT  AND  BLOOM          -- --  212 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PAGI 

SHUISELKIRA* 215 

LAZARUS          ^        .        .        .       - 217 

TH«  IVORT  CRUCIFIX          .......       -       -       -  221 

THK  KINO'S  SPEECH        -               -29 

SAID  TH«  ROSE 285 

SONGS. 

BEETHA .  243 

FIDEUB    -  244 

LADT  BIRD -                               -  246 

SHE  TOLD  ME  Nor  TO  LOVE  HER 248 

OH!  THE  YEAR  HAS  LOST  ITS  LIGHT          •                249 

THERE  WAS  *  TIME         .....--.--251 

BJLL  ASD  I         ..-...---.--  258 

GABRIEL'S  Soxci              -- 257 

A  LctLABT -  259 

ALADDIN'S  PALACE 263 


PEELUDE. 

THEKE  is  an  Angel  whom  I  see  in  dreams. 
The  heavens  break  open  and  lie  takes  his  stand 
Upon  a  cliff  of  shining  adamant 
Far    in    the    furthest   west.      There    bird-like 

poised, 
With  wings   of  snow  wide  arched  and  radiant 

head 

For  flight  thrown  forward,  to  his  lips  he  lifts 
A  shining  trumpet,  gold,  and  like  to  those 
Seen  by  Angelico  in  blessed  vision; 
Then  slowly  with  unmoving  pinion  soars 
Straight  for  the  zenith.    ISTot  a  star  is  shining, 
Nor  sun,  nor  moon,  nor  round  his  tranquil  brow 
The  halo,  nor  the  fire-trail  at  his  feet. 


8  PRELUDE. 

The  firmament  is  lighted  from  his  eyes ; 
And  all  is  still  in  ocean,  air,  and  earth, 
Save  the  far  music  which  that  trumpet  makes. 

There  is  a  word  in  that  far  music  couched, 
Half  lost  and  hidden  in  its  melody : 
Beauty  or  Duty  which,  or  both  in  one  ? 
For  half  the  puzzled  echoes  answer  '  Beauty,' 
"While  half  are  still  replying  'Duty,  Duty.' 
But  once  the  zenith  reached,  the  Seraph  swings 
One  shining  hand  aloft  in  central  heaven 
And  stamps  in  fire,  with  letters  interlaced 
In  lustrous  coils  inseparably  blent, 
Two  mystic  words.    And  as  he  writes,  and  ere 
The  deep  sky  hides  him  in  her  heart,  the  last 
Low  echoes  of  that  golden  clarion  sigh, 
'Beauty  and  Duty,  one  eternally.' 

Ladye,  to  thee  the  minstrel's  song  is  sung. 


CHRISTINE. 

THE  Queen  hatli  built  her  a  fairy  Bower 

In  the  shadow  of  the  Accursed  Tower, 

For  the  Moslem  hath  left  his  blood-stained  lair, 

And  the  banner  of  England  waveth  there. 

Thither  she  lureth  the  Lion  King 

To  hear  a  wandering  Trove-re  sing; 

For  well  she  knew  the  Joyous  Art 

"Was  surest  path  to  Richard's  heart. 

But  the  Monarch's  glance  was  on  the  sea — 

Sooth,  he  was  scarce  in  minstrel  mood, 

For  Philip's  triremes  homeward  stood 

With  all  the  Gallic  chivalry. 

And  as  he  watched  the  filmy  sail 

Upon  the  farthest  billow  fail. 


10  CHRISTINE. 

He  muttered,  "Richard  ill  can  spare 

Thee  and  thy  Templars,  false  and  fair; 

Yet  God  hath  willed  it— home  to  thee, 

Death  or  Jerusalem  for  me!" 

Then  pressing  with  a  knightly  kiss 

The  peerless  hand  tliat  slept  in  his, 

"  Ah,  would  our  own  Blondel  were  here 

To  try  a  measure  I  wove  last  e'en. 

What  songster  hast  thou  caught,  my  Queen, 

Whose  harp  may  soothe  a  Monarch's  ear?" 

She  beckoned,  and  the  Trovere  bowed 

To  many  a  Lord  and  Ladye  fair 

That  gathered  round  the  royal  pair; 

But  most  his  simple  song  was  vowed 

To  a  sweet  shape  with  dark  brown  hair, 

Half  hidden  in  the  gentle  crowd ; 

Pale  as  a  spirit,  sharply  slender, 

In  maiden  beauty's  crescent  splendor. 

And  never  yet  bent  Minstrel  knee 

To  Mistress  lovelier  than  she. 


THE    FIRST    SOISTG. 


THE    FIRST    SONG. 


Ye  have  heard  of  the  Castle  of  Miolan 

And  how  it  hath  stood  since  time  began, 

Midway  to  yon  mountain's  brow, 

Guarding  the  beautiful  valley  below : 

Its  crest  the  clouds,  its  ancient  feet 

Where  the  Arc  and  the  Isere  murmuring  meet. 

Earth  hath  few  lovelier  scenes  to  show 

Thau  Miolan  with  its  hundred  halls, 

Its  massive  towers  and  bannered  walls, 

Looming  out  through  the  vines  and  walnut  woods 

That  gladden  its  stately  solitudes. 


14  CIIKISTINE. 

And  there  might  ye  hear  but  yestermorn 
The  loud  halloo  and  the  hunter's  horn. 
The  laugh  of  mailed  men  at  play, 
The  drinking  bout  and  the  roundelay. 
But  now  all  is  sternest  silence  there. 
Save  the  bell  that  calls  to  vesper  prayer  ; 
Save  the  ceaseless  surge  of  a  father's  wail, 
And,  hark  1  ye  may  hear  the  Baron's  Tale. 


CHRISTINE.  15 


rr. 


"  Come  hither,  Hermit !  — Yestermorn 

I  had  an  only  son, 
A  gallant  fair  as  e'er  was  born, 

A  knight  whose  spurs  were  won 
In  the  red  tide  by  Godfrey's  side 
At  Ascalon. 

"  But  yestermorn  he  came  to  me 

For  blessing  on  his  lance, 
And  death  and  danger  seemed  to  flee 

O 

The  joyaunce  of  his  glance, 
For  he  would  ride  to  win  his  Bride, 
Christine  of  France. 


16  CHRISTINE. 

"  All  sparkling  in  the  sun  he  stood 

In  mail  of  Milan  dressed, 
A  scarf,  the  gift  of  her  he  wooed, 

Lay  lightly  o'er  his  breast, 
As,  with  a  clang,  to  horse  he   sprang 
.     With  nodding  crest. 

"  Gaily  he  grasped  the  stirrup  cup 

Afoam  with  spicy  ale, 
But  as  he  took  the  goblet  up 

Methought  his  check  grew  pale, 
And  a  shudder  ran  through  the  iron  man 
And  through  his  mail. 

"  Oft  had  I  seen  him  breast  the  shock 

Of  squire  or  crowned  king, 
His  front  was  firm  as  rooted  rock 

When  spears  were  shivering : 
I  knew  no  blow  could  shake  him  so 
From  living  thing. 


CHRISTINE.  17 

"  'Twas  something  near  akin  to  death 

That  blanched  and  froze  his  cheek, 
Yet  'twas  not  death   for  he  had  breath. 

And  when  I  bade  him  speak, 
Unto  his  breast  his  hand  he  pressed 
With  one  wild  shriek. 

"  The  hand  thus  clasped  upon  his  heart 

So  sharply  curbed  the  rein, 
Grey  Caliph,  rearing  with  a  start, 

Went  bounding  o'er  the  plain 

Away,  away  with  echoing  neigh 

And  streaming  mane. 

"  After  him  sped  the  menial  throng ; 

I  stirred  not  in  my  fear; 
Perchance  I  swooned,  for  it  seemed  not  long 

Ere  the  race  did  reappear, 
And  my  son  still  led  on  his  desert-bred. 
Grasping  his  spear. 


18  CHRISTINE. 

"  Unchanged  in  look  or  limb,  lie  came, 

He  and  his  barb  so  fleet, 
His  hand  still  on  his  heart,  the  same 

Stern  bearing  in  his  seat, 
And  wheeling  round  with  sudden  bound 
Stopped  at  my  feet. 

"  And  soon  as  ceased  that  wildering  tramp 

'What  ails  thee,  boy?'  I  cried — 
Taking  his  hand  all  chill  and  damp — 

'  What  means  this  fearful  ride  ? 
Alight,  alight,  for  lips  so  white 
Would  scare  a  Bride !' 

"  But  sternly  to  his  steed  clove  he, 

And  answer  made  he  none, 
I  clasped  him  by  his  barbed  knee 

And  there  I  made  my  moan ; 
While  icily  he  stared  at  me, 
At  me  alone. 


CHRISTINE.  19 

"  A  strange,  unmeaning  stare  was  that, 

And  a  page  beside  me  said, 
'  If  ever  corse  in  saddle  sat, 

Our  lord  is  certes  sped!' 
But  I  smote  the  lad,  for  it  drove  me  mad 
To  think  him  dead. 

"  What !  dead  so  young,  what !  lost  so  soon, 

My  beautiful,  my  brave  ! 
Sooner  the  sun  should  find  at  noon 

In  central  heaven  a  grave! 
Sweet  Jesu,  no,  it  is  not  so 

When  Thou  canst  save ! 

"  For  was  he  dead  and  was  he  sped, 

When  he  could  ride  so  well, 
So  bravely  bear  his  plumed  head? 

Or,  was't  some  spirit  fell 
In  causeless  wrath  had  crossed  his  path 
With  fiendish  spell? 


20  CHRISTINE. 

"  Oh,  Hermit,  'twas  a  cruel  sight, 
And  lie,  who  loves  to  bless, 
Xe'er  sent  on  son  such  bitter  blight, 

On  sire  such  sore  distress, 
Such  piteous  pass,  and  I,  alas, 
So  powerless! 

"  They  would  have  ta'en  him  from  his  horse 

The  while  I  wept  and  prayed, 
They  would  have  lain  him  like  a  corse 

Upon  a  litter  made 
Of  traversed  spear  and  martial  gear, 
But  I  forbade. 

"  I  gazed  into  his  face  again, 

I  chafed  his  hand  once  more, 
I  summoned  him  to  speak,  in  vain — 

He  sat  there  as  before, 
"While  the  gallant  Grey  in  dumb  dismay 
His  rider  bore. 


CHRISTINE.  21 

"  Full  well,  full  well  Grey  Caliph  then 

The  horror  seemed  to  know, 
E'en  deeper  than  my  mailed  men 

Methought  he  felt  our  woe; 
For  the  barbed  head  of  the  desert-bred 
Was  drooping  low. 

"  Amazed,  aghast,  he  gazed  at  me, 

That  mourner  true  and  good, 
Then  backward  at  my  boy  looked  he, 

As  if  a  word  he  sued, 
And  like  sculptured  pile  in  abbey  aisle 
The  twain  there  stood. 

"  I  took  the  rein  :  the  frozen  one 

Still  fast  in  saddle  sate, 
As  tremblingly  I  led  him  on 

Toward  the  great  castle  gate. 
O  walls  mine  own,  why  have  ye  grown 
So  desolate? — 


22  CHRISTINE. 

"  I  led  them  to  the  castle  gate 

And  paused  before  the  shrine 
Where  throned  in  state  from  earliest  date, 

Protectress  of  our  line, 
Madonna  pressed  close  to  her  breast 
The  Babe  Divine. 

"  And  kneeling  lowly  at  her  feet, 

I  begged  the  Mother  mild 
That  she  would  sue  her  Jesu  sweet 

To  aid  my  stricken  child ; 
And  the  meek  stone  face  flashed  full  of  grace 
As  if  she  smiled. 

"  And  methought  the  eyes  of  the  Full  of  Grace 

Upon  my  darling  shone, 
Till  living  seemed  that  marble  face 
And  the  living  man  seemed  stone, 
While  a  halo  played  round  the  Mother  Maid 
And  round  her  Son. 


CIIEISTINE.  23 

"  And  there  was  radiance  everywhere 

Surpassing  light  of  day, 
On  man  and  horse,  on  shield  and  spear 

Burned  the  bright,  blinding  ray ; 
But  most  it  shone  on  my  only  one 
And  his  gallant  Grey. 

"  A  sudden  clang  of  armor  rang, 

My  boy  lay  on  the  sward, 
Up  high  in  air  Grey  Caliph  sprang, 

An  instant  fiercely  pawed, 
Then  trembling  stood  aghast  and  viewed 
His  fallen  lord. 

"  Then  with  the  flash  of  fire  away 

Like  sunbeam  o'er  the  plain, 
Away,  away  with  echoing  neigh 

And  wildly  waving  mane, 
Away  he  sped,  loose  from  his  head 
The  flying  rein. 


24  CHBISTINE. 

"  I  watched  the  steed  from  pass  to  pass 

Unto  the  welkin's  rim, 
I  feared  to  turn  my  eyes,  alas, 

To  trust  a  look  at  him  ; 
And  when  I  turned,  my  temples  burned 
And  all  grew  dim. 

"  Sweet  if  such  swoon  could  endless  be, 

Yet  speedily  I  woke 
And  missed  my  boy:   they  showed  him 

Full  length  on  bed  of  oak, 
Clad  as  'twas  meet  in  mail  complete 
And  sable  cloak. 

"  All  of  our  race  upon  that  bier 

Had  rested  one  by  one, 
I  had  seen  my  father  lying  there, 

And  now  there  lay  my  son! 
Ah!  my  sick  soul  bled  the  while  it  said 
'  Thy  will  be  done !' 


CHRISTINE.  25 

"  Bright  glanced  the  crest,  bright  gleamed  the  spur, 

That  well  had  played  their  part, 
His  lance  still  clasped,  nor  could  they  stir 

His  left  hand  from  his  heart; 
There  fast  it  clove,  nor  would  it  move 
With  all  their  art. 

"  I  found  no  voice,  I  shed  no  tear, 

They  thought  me  well  resigned. 
All  else  who  stood  around  the  bier 
With  weeping  much  were  blind; 
And  a  mourning  voice  went  through  tho  house 
Like  a  low  wind. 

"  And  there  was  sob  of  aged  man 

And  woman's  wailing  cry, 
All  cheeks  were  wan,  all  eyes  o'erran, 

Yon  fair-haired  maidens  sigh, 
And  one  apart  with  breaking  heart 
Weeps  bitterly. 


26  CHRISTINE. 

"  But  sharper  than  spear-thrust,  I  trow, 

Their  wailing  through  me  went ; 
Stern  silence  suited  best  my  woe, 

And,  howc'cr  well  the  intent, 
Their  menial  din  seemed  half  akin 
To  merriment. 

"  For  oh,  such  grief  was  mock  to  mine 

Whose  days  were  all  undone, 
The  last  of  all  this  ancient  line 

To  share  whose  grief  was  none ! 
Straight  from  the  hall  I  barred  them  all 
And  stood  alone. 

" '  Receive  me  now,  thon  bed  of  oak ! ' 

I  fell  upon  the  bier, 
And,  Hermit,  when  this  morning  broke 

It  found  me  clinging  there. 
O  maddening  morn !    That  day  dare  dawn 
On  such  a  pair! 


CHRISTINE.  27 

"  I  sent  for  thee,  thou  man  of  God, 

To  watch  with  me  to-night ; 
My  boy  still  liveth,  by  the  rood, 

Nor  shall  be  funeral  rite ! — 
But,  Hermit,  come :  this  is  the  room : 
There  lies  the  Knight !" 


28  CHRISTINE. 


m. 


But  she  apart 
With  breaking  heart? — 
That  very  yestermorn  she  stood 
In  the  deepest  shade  of  the  walnut  wood, 
As  a  Knight  rode  by  on  his  raven  steed, 
Crying,   "Daughter   mine,  hast   thou   done  the 

deed? 

I  gave  thee  the  venom,  I  gave  thee  the  spell, 
A  jealous  heart  might  use  them  well." 
But  she  waved  her  white  arms  and  only  said, 
"  On  oaken  bier  is  Miolan  laid !" 
"  Dead  !"  laughed  the   Knight.   "  Then   round 

Pilate's  Peak 
Let  the  red  light  burn  and  the  eagle  shriek. 


CHRISTINE.  29 

When  Miolan's  lieir  lies  on  the  bier, 
Low  is  the  only  lance  I  fear : 

I  ride,  I  ride  to  win  my  Bride, 

IIo,  Eblis,  to  thy  servant's  side, 

Thou  hast  sworn  no  foe 

Shall  lay  me  low 
Till  the  dead  in  arms  against  me  ride  1" 


\ 


THE    SECOND 


THE  SECOND  SONG. 


They  passed  into  an  ancient  hall 

"With  oaken  arches  spanned. 
Full  many  a  shield  hung  on  the  wall, 

Full  many  a  broken  brand, 
And  barbed  spear  and  scimetar 
From  Holy  Land. 

And  scarfs  of  dames  of  high  degree 

"With  gold  and  jewels  rich, 
And  many  a  mouldered  effigy 

In  many  a  mouldering  niche, 
Like  grey  sea  shells  whose  crumbling  cells 
Bestrew  the  beach. 


34:  CHRISTINE. 

The  sacred  dead  possessed  the  place, 

The  silent  cobweb  wreathed 
The  tombs  where  slept  that  warrior  race, 

"With  swords  for  ever  sheathed : 
You  seemed  to  share  the  very  air 

Which  they  had  breathed. 

Oh,  darksome  was  that  funeral  room, 

Those  oaken  arches  dim, 
The  torchlight,  struggling  through  the  gloom. 

Fell  faint  on  effige  grim, 
On  dragon  dread  and  carved  head 
Of  Cherubim. 

Of  Cherubim  fast  by  a  shrine 

Whereon  the  last  sad  rite 
Was  wont  for  all  that  ancient  line, 

For  dame  and  belted  knight — 
A  shrine  of  Moan  which  death  alone 
Did  ever  light. 


CHRISTINE.  35 

But  light  not  now  that  altar  stone 

"While  hope  of  life  remain, 
Though  darksome  be  that  altar  lone, 

Unlit  that  funeral  fane, 
Save  by  the  rays  cast  by  the  blaze 
Of  torches  twain. 

Of  torches  twain  at  head  and  heel 

Of  him  who  seemeth  dead, 
Who  sleepeth  so  well  in  his  coat  of  steel, 

His  cloak  around  him  spread — 
The  young  Knight  fair,  who  lieth  there 
On  oaken  bed. 

One  hand  still  fastened  to  his  heart, 

The  other  on  his  lance, 
While  through  his  eyelids,  half  apart, 

Life  seemeth  half  to  glance. 
"  Sweet  youth  awake,  for  Jesu's  sake, 
From  this  strange  trance !" 


36  CHRISTINE. 

But  heed  or  answer  there  is  none. 

Then  knelt  that  Hermit  old ; 
To  Mother  Mary  and  her  Son 

Full  many  a  prayer  he  told, 
Whose  wondrous  words  the  Church  records 
In  lettered  gold : 

And  many  a  precious  litany 

And  many  a  pious  vow, 
Then  rising  said,  "If  fiend  it  be, 

That  fiend  shall  leave  thee  now ! " 
And  traced  the  sign  of  the  Cross  divine 
On  lips  and  brow. 

As  well  expect  yon  cherub's  wings 

To  wave  at  matin  bell ! 
Not  all  the  relics  of  the  kings 

Could  break  that  iron  spell. 
"  Pray  for  the  dead,  let  mass  be  said, 
Toll  forth  the  knell !" 


CHRISTINE.  ?>7 


"Not  yet!"  the  Baron    gasped  and  sank 

As  if  beneath  a  blow, 
With  lips  all  writhing  as  they  drank 

The  dregs  of  deepest  woe ; 
With  eyes  aglare,  and  scattered  hair 
Tossed  to  and  fro. 

So  swings  the  leaf  that  lingers  last 

When  wintry  tempests  sweep, 
So  reels  when  storms  have  stripped  the  mast 

The  galley  on  the  deep, 
So  nods  the  snow  on  Eigher's  brow 
Before  the  leap. 

Uncertain  'mid  his  tangled  hair 

His  palsied  fingers  stray, 
He  smileth  in  his  dumb  despair 

Like  a  sick  child  at  play, 
Though  wet,  I  trow,  with  tears  eno' 
That  beard  so  grey. 


38  I  S  T  I  N  E  . 


Oh,  Hermit,  lift  him  to  your  breast, 

There  "Best  his  heart  may  bleed  ; 
Since  none  but  heaven  can  give  him  rest,, 

Heaven's  priest  must  meet  his  need  : 

• 
Dry  that  white  beard,  now  wet  and  weird 

As  pale  sea-weed. 

Uprising  slowly  from  the  ground, 
"With  short  and  frequent  breath, 

In  aimless  circles,  round  and  round, 
The  Baron  tottereth 

With  trailing  feet,  a  mourner  meet 
For  house  of  death. 

Till,  pausing  by  the  shrine  of  Moan, 

He  said,  the  while  he  wept, 
"  Here,  Hermit,  here  mine  only  one, 

When  all  the  castle  slept, 
As  maiden  knight,  o'er  armor  bright, 
His  first  watch  kept, 


CHRISTINE. 

"  This  is  the  casque  that  first  he  wore, 

And  this  his  virgin  shield, 
This  lance  to  his  first  tilt  he  bore, 

With  this  first  took  the  field- 
How  light,  how  lache  to  that  huge  ash 
He  now  doth  wield ! 

"  This  blade  hath  levelled  at  a  blow 

The  she-wolf  in  her  den, 
With  this  red  falchion  he  laid  low 

The  slippery  Saracen. 
God!   will  that  hand,  so  near  his  brand, 
Ne'er  strike  again? 

"  Frown  not  on  him,  ye  men  of  old, 

Whose  glorious  race  is  run ; 
Frown  not  on  him,  my  fathers  bold, 

Though  many  the  field  ye  won : 
His  name  and  los  may  mate  with  yours 
Though  but  begun ! 


40  CHRISTINE. 

"  Receive  him,  ye  departed  brave, 

Unlock  the  gates  of  light, 
And  range  yourselves  about  his  grave 

To  hail  a  brother  knight, 
Who  never  erred  in  deed  or  word 
Against  the  right! 

"  But  is  he  dead  and  is  he  sped 

"Withouten  scathe  or  scar? 
Why,  Hermit,  he  hath  often  bled 

From  sword  and  scimetar — 
I've  seen  him  ride,  wounds  gaping  wide, 
From  war  to  war. 

"  And  hath  a  silent,  viewless  thing 

Laid  danger's  darling  low, 
When  youth  and  hope  were  on  the  wing 

And  life  in  morning  glow? 
Not  yonder  worm  in  winter's  storm 
Perisheth   so ! 


CHRISTINE.  41 

"  Oh,  Hermit,  thou  liast  heard,  I  ween, 

Of  trances  long  and  deep, 
But,  Hermit,  hast  them  ever  seen 

That  grim  and  stony  sleep, 
And  canst  thou  tell  how  long  a  spell 
Such  slumbers  keep? 

"  Oh,  be  there  naught  to  break  the  charm, 

To  thaw  this  icy  chain; 
Has  Mother  Church  no  word  to  warm 

These  freezing  lips  again; 
Be  holy  prayer  and  balsams  rare 
Alike  in  vain  ? .  .  .  . 

"  A  curse  on  thy  ill-omened  head ; 

Man,  bid  me  not  despair; 
Churl,  say  not  that  a  Knight  is  dead 
"When  he  can  couch  his  spear; 

When  he  can  ride Monk,  thou  hast  lied. 

He  lives,  I  swear ! 


42  CHRISTINE. 

"  Up  from  that  bier !    Boy,  to  thy  feet ! 

Know'st  not  thy  father's  voice  ? 
Thou  ne'er  hast  disobeyed  .  .  .  is't  meet 

A  sire  should  summon  thrice? 
By  these  grey  hairs,  by  these  salt  tears, 
Awake,  arise ! 

"  Ho,  lover,  to  thy  ladye  flee, 

Dig  deep  the  crimson  spur; 
Sleep  not  'twixt  this  lean  monk  and  me 

"When  thou  shouldst  kneel  to  her ! 
Oh  'tis  a  sin,  Christine  to  win 
And  thou  not  stir ! 

"  IIo,  laggard,  hear  yon  trumpet's  note 

Go  sounding  to  the  skies, 
The  lists  are  set,  the  banners  float, 

Yon  loud-mouthed  herald  cries, 
4  Hide,  gallant  knights,  Christine  invites, 
Herself  the  prize !" 


CHRISTINE.  43 

"  Ho,  craven,  shun'st  tliou  the  melee, 

"WTien  she  expects  thy  brand 
To  prove  to-day  in  fair  tourney 

A  title  to  her  hand? 
Up,  dullard  base,  or  by  the  mass 

I'll  make  thee  stand !"  .... 

Thrice  strove  he  then  to  wrench  apart 

Those  fingers  from  the  spear, 
Thrice  strove  to  sever  from  the  heart 

The  hand  that  rested  there. 
Thrice  strove  in  vain  with  frantic  strain 
That  shook  the  bier. 

Thrice  with  the  dead  the  living  strove, 

Their  armor  rang  a  peal, 
The  sleeping  knight  he  would  not  move 

Although  the  sire  did  reel : 
That  stately  corse  defied  all  force, 
Stubborn  as  steel. 


44  CHRISTINE. 

"  Ay,  dead,  dead,  dead !"  the  Baron  cried ; 

"  Dear  Hermit,  I  did  rave. 
O  were  we  sleeping  side  by  side !   .   .   . 

Good  monk,  I  penance  crave 
For  all  I  said  ....  Ay,  lie  is  dead, 
Pray  heaven  to  save! 

"  Betake  thee  to  thy  crucifix, 
And  let  me  while  I  may 
Rain  kisses  on  these  frozen  cheeks 

Before  they  know  decay. 
Leave  me  to  weep  and  watch  and  keep 
The  worm  at  bay. 

"  Thou  wilt  not  spare  thy  prayers,  I  trust; 

But  name  not  now  the  grave — 
111  watch  him  to  the  very  dust !  .  .  .  . 

So,  Hermit,  to  thy  cave, 
"Wliilst  here  I  cling  lest  creeping  thing 
Insult  the  brave !" 


CHRISTINE.  45 

"Why  starts  the  Hermit  to  his  feet, 

"Why  springs  he  to  the  bier, 
Why  ealleth  he  on  Jesu  sweet, 

Staying  the  starting  tear, 
"What  whispereth  he  half  trustfully 
And  half  in  fear  ? 

"  Sir  Knight,  thy  ring  hath  razed  his  flesh — 

'Twas  in  thy  frenzy  done; 
Lo,  from  his  wrist  how  fast  and  fresh 

The  blood-drops  trickling  run; 
Heaven  yet  may  wake,  for  Mary's  sake, 
Thy  warrior  son. 

"  Heap  ashes  on  thy  head,  Sir  Knight, 

In  sackcloth  gird  thee  well, 
The  shrine  of  Moan  must  blaze  in  light, 

The  morning  mass  must  swell ; 
Arouse  from  sleep  the  castle  keep, 
Sound  every  bell !" 


iG  CIIEISTINE. 

They  come,  pale  maid  and  mailed  man 

They  throng  into  the  hall, 
The  watcher  from  the  barbican, 

The  warder  from  the  wall, 
And  she  apart,  with  breaking  heart, 
The  last  of  all. 

"Introibof  Introibo /" 
The  morning  mass  begins; 
"  Mea  cidpaf  mea  culpaT 
Forgive  us  all  our  sins; 

And  the  rapt  Hermit  chaunts  with  streaming 
eyes, 

That  seem  to  enter  Paradise, 
"Gloria!   Gloria!" 

The  shrine  of  Moan  had  never  known 

That  gladdest  of  all  hymns. 


CIIKISTINE.  47 


n. 


The  fair-haired  maiden  standeth  apart 

In  the  chapel  gloom,  with  .breaking  heart. 

But  a  smile  crept  over  her  face  as  she  said, 

"  The  draught  was  well  measured,  I  ween ; 
He  liveth,  thank  Allah,  but  not  to  wed 

His  beautiful  Christine. 
No  lance  hath  Miolan  couched  to-day : 
Let  the  bride  for  the  bridegroom  watch  and  pray, 

Till  the  lists  shall  hear  the  shriek   „ 
Of  the  Dauphin's  daughter  borne  away 

By  the  Knight  of  Pilate's  Peak." 


THE    THIRD 


THE  THIKD  SONG. 

Fronting  the  vine-clad  Hermitage, — 

Its  hoary  turrets  mossed  with  age, 

Its  walls  with  flowers  and  grass  o'ergrown, — 

A  ruined  Castle,  throned  so  high 

Its  battlements  invade  the  sky, 
Looks  down  upon  the  rushing  Rhone. 
From  its  tall  summits  you  may  see 
The  sunward  slopes  of  Cote  Rotie 
With  its  red  harvest's  revelry ; 
"While  eastward,  midway  to  the  Alpine  snows, 
Soar  the  sad  cloisters  of  the   Grande  Chart 
reuse. 


52  CHRISTINE. 

And  here,  'tis  said,  to  hide  his  shame, 
The  thrice  accursed  Pilate  came ; 
And  here  the  very  rock  is  shown, 

Where,  racked  and  riven  with  remorse, 

Mad  with  the  memory  of  the  Cross, 
lie  sprang  and  perished  in  the  Rhone. 
'Tis  said  that  certain  of  his  race 
Made  this  tall  peak  their  dwelling  place, 
And  built  them  there  this  castle  keep 
To  mark  the  spot  of  Pilate's  leap. 
Full  many  the  tale  of  terror  told 

At  eve,  with  changing  cheek, 
By  maiden  fair  and  stripling  bold, 
Of  these  dark  keepers  of  the  height 
And,  most  of  all,  of  the  Wizard  Knight, 

The  Knight  of  Pilate's  Peak. 
His  was  a  name  of  terror  known 

And  feared  through  all  Provence; 
Men  breathed  it  in  an  undertone, 

With  quailing  eye  askance, 


CIIKISTINE.  53 

» 

Till  the  good  Dauphin  of  "Vienne, 

And  Miolan's  ancient  Lord, 
One  midnight  stormed  the  robber  den 

And  gave  tliem  to  the  sword  ; 
All  save  the  "Wizard  Knight,  who  rose 
In  a  flame-wreath  from  his  dazzled  foes  ; 
All  save  a  child,  with  golden  hair, 
"Whom  the  Lord  of  Miolan  deigned  to  spare 

In  ruth  to  womanhood, 
And  she,  alas,  is  the  maiden  fair 

Who  wept  in  the  walnut  wood. 

But  who  is  he,  with  step  of  fate, 
Goes  gloomily  through  the  castle  gate 

In  the  morning's  virgin  prime? 
"Why  scattereth  he  with  frenzied  hand 
The  fierce  flame  of  that  burning  brand, 

Chaunting  an  ancient  rhyme  ? 
The  eagle,  scared  from  her  blazing  nest, 
Whirls  with  a  scream  round  his  sable  crest. 


54  CHRISTINE. 

What  mutteretli  he  with  demon  smile, 
Shaking  his  mailed  hand  the  while 

Toward  the  Chateau  of  La  Sone, 
Where  champing  steed  and  bannered  tent 
Gave  token  of  goodly  tournament, 

And  the  Golden  Dolphin  shone? 
"  Woe  to  the  last  of  the  Dauphin's  line, 
When  the  eagle  shrieks  and  the  red  lights  shine 

Round  the  towers  of  Pilate's  Peak  ! 
Burn,  beacon,  burn  !" — and  as  he  spoke 
From  the  ruined  towers  curled  the  pillared  smoke. 
As  the  light  flame  leapt  from  the  ancient  oak 

And  answered  the  eagle's  shriek. 
Man  and  horse  down  the  hillside  sprang 
And  a  voice  through  the  startled  forest  rang — 

"  I  ride,  I  ride  to  win  my  bride. 

IIo,  Eblis !  to  thy  servant's  side  ; 
Thou  hast  sworn  no  foe 
Shall  lay  me  low 
Till  the  dead  in  arms  against  me  ride." 


CHRISTINE.  55 


n. 


Deliciously,  deliciously 

Cometh  the  dancing  dawn, 
Christine,  Christine  comes  with  it, 
Leading  in  the  morn. 

Beautiful  pair  ! 
So  cometh  the  fawn 

Before  the  deer. 
Christine  is  in  her  bower 

Beside  the  swift  Isere 
"Weaving  a  white  flower 
With  her  dark  brown  hair. 
Never,  O  never, 

Wandering  river, 
Though  flowing  for  ever, 


50  CHRISTINE. 

E'er  shalt  them  mirror 
Maiden  so  fair  ! 

Hail  to  tliee,  hail  to  thee, 

Beautiful  one; 
Maiden  to  match  thec, 

On  earth  there  is  none. 
And  there  is  none  to  tell 

How  beautiful  thou  art ; 
Though  oft  the  first  Rudel 

Has  made  the  Princes  start, 
"When  he  has  strung  his  harp  and  sung 

The  Lily  of  Provence, 
Till  the  high  halls  have  rung 

"With  clash  of  lifted  lance 
Vowed  to  the  young 

Christine  of  France. 

Ah,  true  that  he  might  paint 
The  blooming  of  thy  cheek, 


CHRISTINE.  57 

The  blue  vein's  tender  streak 
On  marble  temple  faint ; 

Lips  in  whose  repose 

Kuby  weddeth  rose, 

Lips  that  parted  show 

Ambushed  pearl  below: 
Or  he  may  catch  the  subtle  glow 

Of  smiles  as  rare  as  sweet, 
May  wliisper  of  the  drifted  snow 

"Where  throat  and  bosom  meet, 
And  of  the  dark  brown  braids  that  flow 

So  grandly  to  thy  feet. 

Ah,  true  that  he  may  sing 

Thy  wondrous  mien, 
Stately  as  befits  a  queen, 
Yet  light  and  lithe  and  all  awing 

As  becometh  Queen  of  air 
"Who  glideth  unstopping  everywhere. 
And  he  might  number  e'en 

The  charms  that  haunt  thy  drapery — 


58  OHEISTINE. 

Charms  that,  ever  changing,  cluster 
Round  thy  milk-white  mantle's  lustre, — 
Maiden  mantle  that  is  part  of  thee, 
Maiden  mantle  that  doth  circle  thee 

With  the  snows  of  virgin  grace  ; 
Halo-like  around  thee  wreathing, 
Spirit-like  about  thee  breathing 
The  glory  of  thy  face. 

But  these  dark  eyes,  Christine? 

Peace,  poet,  peace, 

Cease,  minstrel,  cease! 
But  these  dear  eyes,  Christine  ? 

Mute,  O  mute 

Be  voice  and  lute! 
O  dear  dark  eyes  that  seem  to  dwell 
With  holiest  things  invisible, 

Who  may  read  your  oracle? 
Earnest  eyes  that  seem  to  rove 

Empyrean  heights  above, 


CHRISTINE. 

Yet  aglow  with  human  love, 

"Who  may  speak  your  spell  ? 
Dear  dark  eyes  that  beam  and  bless, 
In  whose  luminous  caress 
Nature  weareth  bridal  dress, — 
Eyes  of  voiceless  Prophetess, 
Your  meanings  who  may  tell ! 

O  there  is  none ! 
Peace,  poet,  peace, 
Cease,  minstrel,  cease, 
For  there  is  none ! 
O  eyes  of  fire  without  desire, 
O  stars  that  lead  the  sun  ! 
But  minstrel  cease, 
Peace,  poet,  peace, 
Tame  Troubadour  be  still; 
Voice  and  lute 
Alike  be  mute, 
It  passeth  all  your  skill ! 


CO  OHKISTINE. 

Sootli  thou  art  fair, 
O  ladyc  dear, 

Yet  one  may  see 
The  shadow  of  the  east  in  thce  ; 
Tinting  to  a  riper  flush 
The  faint  vermilion  of  thy  blush  ; 
Deepening  in  thy  dark  brown  hair 
Till  sunshine  sleeps  in  starlight  there. 
For  she  had  scarce  seen  summers  ten, 
When  erst  the  LLermit's  call 
Sent     all     true    Knights    from     bower    and 

hall 

Against  the  Saracen. 
Young,  motherless,  and  passing  fair, 
The  Dauphin  durst  not  leave  her  there, 

"Within  his  castle  lone, 
To  kinsman's  cold  or  casual  care, 

Not  such  as  were  his  own : 
And  so  the  sweet  Provencal  maid 
Shared  with  her  sire  the  first  Crusade. 


CHRISTINE.  Gl 

And  you  may  hear  her  oft, 

In  accents  strangely  soft, 

Still  singing  of  the  rose's  bloom 

In  Sharon, — of  tlie  long  sunset 

That  gilds  lamenting  Olivet, 
Of  eglantines  that  grace  the  gloom 

Of  sad  Gethsemane  ; 
And  of  a  young  Knight  ever  seen 
In  evening  walks  along  the  green 

That  fringes  feeble  Siloe. 

Young,  beautiful,  and  passing  fair — 
The  ancient  Dauphin's  only  heir, 
The  fairest  flower  of  France, — 
Knights    by    sea    and    Knights    by    land 
Came    to    claim    the    fair    white    hand, 
With  sigh  and  suppliant  lance ; 
And  many  a  shield 
Displayed  afield 
The  Lily  of  Provence. 


02  CHRISTINE. 

Ladye  love  of  prince  and  bard 

Yet  to  one  young  Savoyard 
Swerveless  faith  she  gave — 

To  the  young  Knight  ever  seen 

When  moonlight  wandered  o'er  the  green 

That  gleams  o'er  Siloe's  wave. 
And  he,  blest  boy,  where  lingers  he  ? 

For  the  Dauphin  hath  given  slow  consent 

That,  after  a  joyous  tournament, 
The  stately  spousals  shall  be. 

Christine  is  in  her  bower 

That  blooms  by  the  swift  Isere, 

Twining  a  white  flower 
With  her  dark  brown  hajr. 

The  skies  of  Provence 

Are  bright  with  her  glance, 
And  nature's  matin  organ  floods 

The  world  with  music  from  the  myriad  throats 

Of  the  winged  Troubadours,  whose  joyous  notes 


CHRISTINE.  63 

Brighten  the  rolling  requiem  of  the  woods. 
"With  melody,  flowers,  and  light 

Hath  the  maiden  come  to  play, 
As  fragile,  fair,  and  bright 

And  lovelier  than  they  ? 
O  no,  she  has  come  to  her  bower 

That  blooms  by  the  dark  Isere 
For  the  bridegroom  who  named  the  first  hour 

Of  day-dawn  to  meet  her  there : 
But  the  bridal  morn  on  the  hills  is  born 

x\.nd  the  bridegroom  is  not  here. 

Hie  thee  hither,  Savoyard, 

On  subh  an  errand  youth  rides  hard. 

Never  knight  so  dutiful 

Maiden  failed  so  beautiful  : 

And  she  in  such  sweet  need, 

And  he  so  bold  and  true ! — 

She  will  watch  by  the  long  green  avenue 

Till  it  quakes  to  the  tramp  of  his  steed ; 


C4  CHRISTINE. 

Till  it  echoes  the  neigh  of  the  gallant  Grey 
Spurred  to  the  top  of  his  speed. 

In  the  dark,  green,  lonely  avenue 

The  Ladye  her  love-watch  kcepeth, 
Listening  so  close  that  she  can  hear 
The  very  dripping  of  the  dew 

Stirred  by  the  worm  as  it  creepeth ; 

Straining  her  ear 
For  her  lover's  coming 

Till  his  steed  seems  near 
In  the  bee's  far  humming. 
She  stands  in  the  silent  avenue, 

Her  back  to  a  cypress  tree ; 
O  Savoyard  once  bold  and  true, 

Late  bridegroom,  where  canst  thou  be  ? 
Hark !  o'er  the  bridge  that  spans  the  river 

There  cometh  a  clattering  tread, 
Never  was  shaft  from  mortal  quiver 
Ever  so  swiftly  sped. 


CIIKISTINE.  65 

Onward  tlie  sound, 
Bound  after  bound, 
Leapetli  along  the  tremulous  ground. 

From  the  nodding  forest  darting, 
Leaves,  like  water,  round  them  parting, 

Up  the  long  green   avenue, 

Horse  and  horseman  burst  in  view. 
Many,  what  ails  the  bridegroom  gay 

That  he  strideth  a  coal  black  steed, 
Why  cometh  he  not  on  the  gallant  Grey 

That  never  yet  failed  him  at  need  ? 
Gone  is  the  white  plume,  that  clouded  his  crest, 
And  the  love-scarf  that  lightly  lay  over  his  breast ; 
Dark  is  his  shield  as  the  raven's  wing 
To  the  funeral  banquet  hurrying. 
Came  ever  knight  in  such  sad  array 
On  the  merry  morn  of  his  bridal  day  ? 
The  Ladye  .trembles,,  and  well  she  may ; 
Saints,  you  would  think  him  a  fiend  astray. 


C6  CHRISTINE. 

A  plunge,  a  pause,  and,  fast  beside  her, 
Stand  the  sable  horse  and  rider. 
Alas,  Christine,  this  shape  of  wrath 
In  Palestine  once  crossed  thy  path  ; 
His  arm  around  thy  waist,  I  trow, 
To  bear  thee  to  his  saddle-bow, 

But  thy  Savoyard  was  there, 
In  time  to  save,  tho'  not  to  smite, 
For  the  demon  fled  into  the  night 

From  Miolan's  matchless  heir. 
Alas,  Christine,  that  lance  lies  low — 

Lies  low  on  oaken  bier ! 


Low  bent  the  Wizard,  till  his  plume 
O'ershadowed  her  like  falling  doom  : 
She  feels  the  cold  casque  touch  her  ear, 
She  hears  the  whisper,  hollow,  clear, — 
"  From  Acre's  strand,  from  Holy  Land, 
O'er  mountain  crag,  through  desert  sand, 


CHEISTINE.  67 

By  land,  by  sea,  I  come  for  tliee, 
And  mine  ere  sunset  slialt  tliou  be  ! 
Dost  know  me,  girl  ?" 

The  visor  raises — 
God,  'tis  the  Knight  of  Pilate's  Peak ! 

As  if  in  wildered  dream  she  gazes, 
Gazing  as  one  who  strives  to  shriek. 
She  cannot  fly,  or  speak,  or  stir, 
For  that  face  of  horror  glares  at  her 

Like  a  phantom  fresh  from  hell. 
She  gave  no  answer,  she  made  no  moan  ; 
Mute  as  a  statue  overthrown, 
Her  fair  face  cold  as  carved  stone, 

Swooning  the  maiden  fell. 


The  sun  has  climbed  the  golden  hills 
And  danceth  down  with  the  mountain  rills. 
Over  the  meadow  the  swift  beams  run 
Lifting  the  flowers,  one  by  one, 


68  CHRISTINE. 

Sipping  their  chalices  dry  as  they  pass, 
And  kissing  the  beads  from  the  bending  MT;I- 
The  Dauphin's  chateau,  grand  and  grey, 
Glows  merrily  in  the  risen  day; 
His  castle  that  seemeth  ancient  as  earth, 
Lights  up  like  an  old  man  in  his  mirth. 
Through  the  forest  old,  the  sunbeams  bold 

Their  glittering  revel  keep, 
Till,  in  arrowy  gold,  on  the  chequered  wold 

In  glancing  lines  they  sleep. 
And  one  sweet  beam  hath  found  its  wny 
To  the  violet  bank  where  the  Ladye  lay. 
O  radiant  touch!  perchance  so  shone 
The  hand  that  woke  the  widow's  son. 


She  sighs,  she  stirs ;  the  death-swoon  breaks  ; 

Life  slowly  fires  those  pallid  lips  ; 
And  feebly,  painfully,  she  wakes, 

Struggling  through  that  dark  eclipse. 


CHRISTINE.  CO 

V 


Breathing  fresh  of  Alpine  snows, 
Breathing  sweets  of  summer  rose, 

\~J 

Murmuring  songs  of  soft  repose, 
The  south  wind  on  her  bosom  blows  : 
But  she  heeds  it  not,  she  hears  it  not  ; 
Fast  she  sits  with  steady  stare, 
The  dew-drops  heavy  on  her  hair, 
Her  fingers  clasped  in  dumb  despair, 

Frozen  to  the  spot: 

While  o'er  her  fierce  and  fixed  as  fate, 
The  fiend  on  his  spectral  war-horse  sate. 
A  horrible  smile  through  the  visor  broke, 
And,  quoth  he, 

"I  but  watched  till  my  Ladye  woke. 
Get  thee  a  flagon  of  Shiraz  wine, 
For  the  lips  must  be  red  that  answer  mine  !" 
Cleaving  the  woods,  like  the  wind  he  went, 
His  face  o'er  his  shoulder  backward  bent, 
Crying  thrice — "  "We  shall  meet  at  the  Tourna 
ment  !" 


70  CHRISTINE. 

Clasping  the  cypress  overhead, 
Christine  rose  from  her  fragrant  bed, 
And  a  prayer  to  Mother  Mary  sped. 
Hold  not  those  gleaming  skies  for  her 
The  same  unfailing  Comforter? 
And  those  two  white  winged  cherubim, 
She  once  had  seen,  when  Christmas  hymn 

Chimed  with  the  midnight  mass, 
Scattering  light  through  the  chapel  dim, 

Alive  in  the  stained  glass — 
What  fiend  could  harm  a  hair  of  her, 
While  those  arching  wings  took  care  of  her  'i 
And  our  Ladye,  Maid  divine, 
Mother  round  whose  marble  shrine 
She  wreathed  the  rose  of  Palestine 

So  many  sinless  years, 
Will  not  heaven's  maiden-mother  Queen 

Regard  her  daughter's  tears  ? 
Yes  ! — through  the  forest  stepping  slow, 
Tranquil  mistress  of  her  woe, 


CHRISTINE. 


71 


Goeth  the  calm  Christine  ; 
And  but  for  yonder  spot  of  snow 
Upon  each  temple,  none  may  know 

How  stern  a  storm  hath  been. 
For  never  dawned  a  brighter  day, 
And  the  Ladye  smileth  on  her  way, 
Greeting  the  blue-eyed  morn  at  play 
"With  earth  in  her  spangled  green. 
A  single  cloud 
Stole  like  a  shroud 
Forth  from  the  fading  mists  that  hid 
The  crest  of  each  Alpine  pyramid  ; 
Unmovingly  it  lingers  over 
The  mountain  castle  of  her  lover ; 

While  over  Pilate's  Peak 
Hangs  the  grey  pall   of  the  sullen   smoke, 
Leaps  the  lithe  flame  of  the  ancient  oak 

And  the  eagle  soars  with  a  shriek. 
Full  well  she  knew  the  curse  was  near, 
But  that  heart  of  hers  had  done  with  fear. 


72  CHRISTINE. 

By  St.  Antoine,  not  steadier  stands 

Mont  Blanc's  white  head  in  winter's  whirl 
Thau  that  calm,  fearless,  smiling  girl 

"With  her  bare  brow  upturned  and  firmly  folded 

hands. 

- 

Back  to  her  bower  so  fair 

Christine  her  way  is  wending; 
Over  the  dark  Isere 

Silently  she's  bending, 
Thus  communing  with  the  stream, 
As  one  who  whispers  in  a  dream: 
"  Waters  that  at  sunset  ran 
Round  the  Mount  of  Miolan  ; 
Stream,  that  binds  my  love  to  me, 
Whisper  where  that  lover  be; 
Wavelets  mine,  what  evil  things 
Mingle  with  your  murmurings; 
Tell  me,  ere  ye  glide  away. 
Wherefore  doth  the  bridegroom  stay  * 


CHKISTINE.  73 


Ilath  the  fiend  of  Pilate's 
Met  him,  stayed  him,  slain  him?  —  speak  ! 
Speak  the  worst  a  Bride  may  know, 
God  hath  armed  my  soul  for  woe  ; 
Touching  heaven,  the  virgin  snow 
Is  firmer  than  the  rock  below. 
Lies  my  love  upon  his  bier, 
Answer,  answer,  dark  Isere  ! 
Hark,  to  the  low  voice  of  the  river 
Singing  '  Thy  love  is  lost  for  ever  /' 
AYeep  with  all  thy  icy  fountains, 
Weep,  ye  cold,  uncaring  mountains, 

I  have  not  a  tear! 
Stream,  that  parts  my  love  from  me, 
Bear  this  bridal  rose  with  thee; 
Bear  it  to  the  happy  hearted, 
Christine  and  all  the  flowers  have  parted  !" 

They  are  coming  from  the  castle, 
A  bevy  of  bright-eyed  girls, 


74  CHRISTINE. 

Some  with  tlieir  long  locks  braided, 

Some  with  loose  golden  curls. 
Merrily  'mid  the  meadows 

They  win  their  wilful  way  ; 
"Winding  through  sun  and  shadow. 

Rivulets  at  play. 
Brows  with  white  rosebuds  blowing, 

Necks  with  white  pearl  entwined, 
Gowns  whose  white  folds  imprison 

Wafts  of  the  wandering  wind. 
The  boughs  of  the  charmed  woodland 

Sing  to  the  vision  sweet, 
The  daisies  that  crouch  in  the  clover 

JTod  to  their  twinkling  feet. 
They  see  Christine  by  the  river, 

And,  deeming  the  bridegroom  near. 
They  wave  her  a  dewy  rose-wreath 

Fresh  plucked  for  her  dark  brown  hair. 
Hand  in  hand  tripping  to  meet  her, 

Birdlike  they  carol  their  joy, 


ClIlilSTINE.  75 


"Wedding  soft  Provengal  numbers 
To  a  dulcet  old  strain  of  Savoy. 


THE    GREETING. 

Sister,  standing  at  Love's  golden  gate, 

Life's  second  door — 
Fleet  the  maidentime  is  flying, 
Friendship  fast  in  love  is  dying, 

Bridal  fate  doth  separate 
Friends  evermore. 

Pilgrim,  seeking  with  thy  sandalled  feet 

The  land  of  Hiss ; 
Sire  and  sister  tearless  leaving, 
To  thy  beckoning  palmer  cleaving — 
Truant  sweet,  once  more  repeat 
Our  parting  kiss. 


7G  CHRISTINE. 

Wanderer  filling  for  enchanted  isle 

Thy  dimpling  sail; 
Whither  drifted,  all  uncaring, 
So  with  faithful  helmsman  faring, 
Stay  and  smile  with  us,  awhile, 
Before  the  gale. 

Playmate,  hark !  for  aU  that  once  was  ours 

Soon  rings  the  knett  : 
Glade  and  thicket,  glen  and  heather, 
Whisper  sacredly  togetJier  ; 
Queen  of  ours,  the  very  flowers 
Sigh  forth  farewell. 

Christine  looked  up,  and  smiling  stood 

Among  the  choral  sisterhood : 

But  some  who  sprang  to  greet  her,  stayed 

Tiptoe,  with  the  speech  unsaid  ; 

And,  each  the  other,  none  knew  why, 

Questioned  with  quick,  wondering  eye, 


CHRISTINE.  77 

One  by  one,  their  smiles  have  flown, 

No  lip  is  laughing  but  her  own  ; 

And  hers,  the  frozen  smile  that  wears 

The  glittering  of  unshed  tears. 

"Ye  have  sung  for  me,  I  will  sing  for  ye, 

My  sisters  fond  and  fair." 
And  she  bent  her  head  till  the  chaplet  fell 

Adown  in  the  deep  Isere. 

THE  REPLY. 

Bring  me  no  rose-wreath  now  : 
But  come  when  sunsefs  first  tears  fall, 
When  night-birds  from  the  mountain  call — 
Then  hind  my  hrow. 

Roses  and  lilies  white — 
But  tarry  till  the  glow-worms  trail 
Their  gold-work  o'er  the  spangled  veil 
Of  falling  night. 


78  CHRISTINE. 

Twine  not  your  garland  fair 
Till  I  have  fallen  fast  asleep  • 
Then  to  my  silent  pillow  creep 
And  leave  it  there — 

There  in  the  chapel  yard! — 
Come  with  twilights  earliest  hush. 
Just  as  day's  last  purple  flush 
Forsakes  the  sward. 

Stop  wJiere  the  white  cross  stands. 
You'll  find  me  in  my  wedding  suit. 
Lying  motionless  and  mute, 
With  folded  hands. 

Tenderly  to  my  side: 
TJie  bridegroom'*  form  you  may  not  see 

In  the  dim  eve,  but  he  wiU  be 
Fast  by  his  bride. 


CHRISTINE.  79 

Soft  with  your  clmplet  move, 
And  lightly  lay  it  on  my  head: 
Be  sure  you  wake  not  with  rude  tread 
My  jealous  love, 

I£iss  me,  then  quick  away  / 
And  leave  us,  in  unwatched  repose. 
With  the  lily  and  the  rose 
Waiting  for  day! 


But  hark !  the  cry  of  the  clamorous  horn 
Smites  the  bright  stillness  of  the  morn. 
From  moated  wall,  from  festal  hall 
The  banners  beckon,  the  bugles  call ; 
Already  flames,  in  the  lists  unrolled 
O'er  -the  Dauphin's  tent,  the  Dolphin  gold. 
A  hundred  knights  in  armor  glancing, 
Hurry  afield  with  pennons  dancing, 


80  CHEISTINE. 

Eacli  with  a  vow  to  splinter  a  lance 
For  Christine,  the  Lily  of  Provence. 

"  Haste !"  cried  Christine  ; 
"  Sisters,  we  tarry  late, 
Let  not  the  tourney  wait 

For  its  Queen!" 
And,  toward  the  castle  gate, 
They  take  their  silent  way  along  the  green. 


THE    FOURTH    S  o  ^  G. 


THE    FOURTH    SONG. 


i. 


Amid  the  gleam  of  princely  war 
Christine  sat  like  the  evening  star, 
Pale  in  the  sunset's  pageant  bright, 
A  separate  and  sadder  light 
O  bitter  task 

To  rear  aloft  that  shining  head, 
While  round  thee,  cruel  whisperers  ask — 
"  Marry,  what  aileth  the  Bridegroom  gay  ? 
The  heralds  have  waited  as  long  as  they  may, 
Yet  never  a  sign  of  the  gallant  Grey. 
Is  Miolan  false  or  dead  ?" 


84  CHRISTINE. 


II. 


The  Dauphin  eyed  Christine  askance: 
"  We  have  tarried  too  long,"  quoth  he ; 

"  Doth  the  Savoyard  fear  the  thrust  of  France  ? 

By  the  Bride  of  Heaven,  no  laggard  lance 
Shall  ever  have  guard  of  thee !" 

You  could  see  the  depths  of  the  dark  eyes  shine 

And  a  glow  on  the  marble  cheek, 
As  she  whispered,  "Woe  to  the  Dauphin's  line 
When  the  eagle  shrieks  and  the  red  lights  shine 
Round  the  towers  of  Pilate's  Peak." 

She  levelled  her  white  hand  toward  the  west, 

Where  the  omen  beacon  shone ; 
And  he  saw  the  flame  on  the  castle  crest, 
And  a  livid  glare  light  the  mountain's  breast 

Even  down  to  tho  rushing  Rhone. 


CHRISTINE.  85 

Never  braver  lord  in  all  the  land 

Than  that  Dauphin  true  and  tried  ; 
But  the  rein  half  fell  from  his  palsied  hand 
And  his  fingers  worked  at  the  jewelled  brand 
That  shook  in  its  sheath  at  his  side. 

For  it  came  with  a  curse  from  earliest  time, 

It  was  carved  on  his  father's  halls, 
It  had  haunted  him  ever  from  clime  to  clime, 
And  at  last  the  red  light  of  the  ancient  rhyme 
Is  burning  on  Pilate's  walls! 

Yet  warrior-like  beneath  his  feet 

Trampling  the  sudden  fear, 
lie  cried,  "Let  thy  lover's  foot  be  fleet — 
If  thy  Savoyard  would  wed  thee,  sweet, 

By  Saint  Mark,  he  were  better  here ! 

"  For  I  know  by  yon  light  there  is  danger  near, 
And  I  swear  by  the  Holy  Shrine, 


8G  C  IT  E  I  S  T  I  N  E  . 

Be  it  virgin  spear  or  Miolan's  heir, 
Tlie  victor  to-day  shall  win  and  wear 
This  menaced  daughter  of  mine!" 

The  lists  are  aflame  with  the  gold  and  steel 

Of  knights  in  their  proud  array, 
And  gong  and  tymbalon  chiming  peal 
As  forward  the  glittering  squadrons  wheel 
To  the  jubilant  courser's  neigh. 

The  Dauphin  sprang  to  the  maiden's  side, 

And  thrice  aloud  cried  he, 
"Ride,  gallants  all,  for  beauty  ride, 
Christine  herself  is  the  victor's  bride, 

Whoever  the  victor  be !" 

And  thrice  the  heralds  cried  it  aloud, 

While  a  wondering  whisper  ran 
From  the  central  lists  to  the  circling  crowd, 
For  all  knew  the  virgin  hand  was  vowed 
To  the  heir  of  Miolan. 


CHRISTINE.  87 

Quick  at  the  Dauphin's  plighted  word 

Full  many  an  eye  flashed  fire, 
Full  many  a  knight  took  a  truer  sword, 
Tried  buckle  and  girth,  and  many  a  lord 

Chose  a  stouter  lance  from  his  squire. 

Back  to  the  barrier's  measured  bound 

Each  gallant  speedeth  away; 
Then,  forwafd  fast  to  the  trumpet's  sound, 
A  hundred  horsemen  shake  the  ground 

And  meet  in  the  mad  melee. 

Crimson  the  spur  and  crimson  the  spear, 

The  blood  of  the  brave  flows  fast ; 
But  Christine  is  deaf  to  the  dying  prayer, 
Blind  to  the  dying  eyes  that  glare 
On  her  as  they  look  their  last. 

She  sees  but  a  Black  Knight  striking  so  well 
That  the  bravest  shun  his  path; 


88  CHRISTINE. 

His  name  or  his  nation  none  may  tell, 
But  wherever  he  struck  a  victim  fell 
At  the  feet  of  that  shape  of  wrath. 

"  'Fore  God,"  quoth  the  Dauphin,  "  that  unknown 

sword 

Is  making  a  merry  day  !" 
But  where,  oh  where  is  the  Savoyard, 
For    low     in     the     slime    of    thfit    trampled 

sward 
Lie  the  flower  of  the  Dauphin" ee ! 

And  the  victor  stranger  rideth  alone, 

"Wiping  his  bloody  blade  ; 
And  now  that  to  meet  him  there  is  none, 
Now  that  the  warrior  work  is  done, 

He  maveth  toward  the  maid. 

Sternly,  as  if  he  came  to  kill, 
Toward  the  damsel  he  turncth  his  rein; 


CHRISTINE.  89 

His  trumpet  sounding  a  challenge  shrill, 
While  the  fatal  lists  of  La  Sone  are  still 
As  he  paces  the  purple  plain. 

A  hollow  voice  through  the  visor  cried, 

"  Mount  to  the  crupper  with  me. 
Mount,  Ladye,  mount  to  thy  master's  side, 
For  'tis  said  and  'tis  sworn  thou  shalt  be  the 

Bride 
Of  the  victor,  whoever  he  be." 

At  sound  of  that  voice  a  sudden  flame 
Shot  out  from  the  Dauphin's  eyes, 

And  he  said,  "Sir  Knight,  ere  we  grant  thy 
claim, 

Let  us  see  the  face,  let  us  hear  the  name, 
Of  the  gallant  who  winneth  the  prize/' 

"  'Tis  a  name  you  know  and  a  face  you  fear," 
The  "Wizard  Knight  began; 


90  CHRISTINE. 

"Or  hast  thou  forgotten  that  midnight  drear, 
"When  my  sleeping  fathers  felt  the  spear 
Of  Vienne  and  Miolan  ? 

"  Ay,  quiver  and  quail  in  thy  coat  of  mail, 

For  hark  to  the  eagle's  shriek ; 
See    the    red    light    burns    for    the    coming 

bale!" 
And  all  knew  as  he  lifted  his  aventaylc 

The  Knight  of  Pilate's  Peak. 

From  the  heart    of   the  mass    rose   a  cry  of 
wrath 

As  they  sprang  at  the  shape  abhorred, 
But  he  swept  the  foremost  from  his  path, 
And  the  rest  fell  back  from  the  fatal  swath 

Of  that  darkly  dripping  sword. 

But  uprose  the  Dauphin  brave  and  bold, 
And  strode  out  upon  the  green, 


CHRISTINE.  91 

AM  quoth  he,    "Foul    fiend,    if   my  purpose 

hold, 

By  my  halidome,  tlio'  I  be  passing  old, 
"We'll  splinter  a  lance  for  Christine. 

"  Since  her  lovers  are  low  or  recreant, 

Her  champion  shall  be  her  sire ; 
So  get  a  fresh  lance  from  yonder  tent, 
For  though  my  vigor  be  something  spent 

I  fear  neither  thee  nor  thy  fire  !" 

Swift  to  the  stirrup  the  Dauphin  he  sprang, 
The  bravest  and  best  of  his  race : 

Xo  bugle  blast  for  the  combat  rang ; 

Save    the     clattering    hoof     and    the     armor 

clang, 
All  was  still  as  each  rode  to  his  place. 

With  the  crash  of  an  April  avalanche 
They  meet  in  that  merciless  tilt ; 


92  CHRISTINE. 

Back  went  each  steed  with  shivering  haunch, 
Back  to  the  croup  bent  each  rider  staunch, 
Shivered  each  spear  to  the  hilt. 

Thrice  flies  the  Baron's  battle-axe  round 

The  "Wizard's  sable  crest ; 
But  the  coal-black  steed,  with  a  sudden  bound, 
Ilurled  the  old  Crusader  to  the  ground, 

And  stamped  on  his  mailed  breast 

Thrice  by  the  vengeful  war-horse  spurned, 

Lowly  the  Dauphin  lies  ; 
While  the  Black  Knight  laughed  as  again  he 

turned 
Toward  the  lost  Christine,  and  his  visor  burned 

As  he  gazed  at  his  beautiful  prize. 

Her  doom   you  might  read   in    that  gloating 

stare, 
But  no  fear  in  the  maid  can  you  see ; 


CIIEISTINE.  93 

Nor  is  it  the  calm  of  a  dumb  despair, 
For  hope  sits  aglow  on  her  forehead  fair, 
And  she  murmurs,  "At  last — it  is  he !" 

Proudly    the    maiden    hath  sprung  from   her 

seat, 

Proudly  she  glanceth  around, 
One  hand  on  her  bosom  to  stay  its  beat, 
For  hark !  there 's  a  sound  like  the  flying  feet 
Of  a  courser,  bound  after  bound. 

Clearing  the  lists  with  a  leopard-like  spring, 

Plunging  at  top  of  his  speed, 
Swift  o'er  the  ground  as  a  bird  on  the  wing. 
There  bursts,  all  afoam,  through  the  wondering 
ring, 

A  gallant  but  riderless  steed. 

Arrow-like  straight  to  the  maiden  he  sped, 
With  a  long,  loud,  tremulous  neigh, 


94  CHRISTINE. 

The  rein  flying  loose  round  his  glorious  head, 
While    all    whisper    again,   "L?   the    Savoyard 

dead?' 
As  they  gaze  at  the  riderless  Grey. 

One  sharp,  swift  pang  thro'  the  virgin  heart, 

One  wildering  cry  of  woe, 
Then  fleeter  than  dove  to  her  calling  nest, 
Lighter  than  chamois  to  Malaval's  crest 

She  leaps  to  the  saddle  bow. 

"  Away  !"    lie  knew  the  sweet  voice ;  away, 

"With  never  a  look  behind; 
Away,  away,  with  echoing  neigh 
Aijd  streaming  mane,  goes  the  gallant  Grey, 

Like  an  eagle  before  the  wind. 

They  have  cleared  the  lists,  they  have  passed  her 

bower, 
And  still  they   aiv   thundering  on  ; 


CHRISTINE.  95 

They  are  over  the  bridge — another  hour, 
A  league  behind  them  the  Leaning  Tower 
And  the  spires  of  Saint  Antoine. 

Away,  away  in  their  wild  career 

Past  the  slopes  of  Mont  Surjeu  ; 
Thrice  have  they  swum  the  swift  Isere, 
And  firm  and  clear  in  the  purple  air 

Soars  the  Grand  Som  full  in  view. 

Rough  is  their  path  and  sternly  steep, 

Yet  halting  never  a  whit, 
Onward  the  terrible  pace  they  keep, 
While    the    good    Grey,    breathing    free    and 
deep, 

Steadily  strains  at  the  bit. 

They  have  left  the  lands  where  the  tall  hemp 

springs, 
Where  the  clover  bends  to  the  bee ; 


00  CHRISTINE. 

They  liavc  left  the  hills  where  the  red  vine 

flings 

Her  clustered  curls  of  a  thousand  rings 
Round  the  arms  of  the  mulberry  tree. 

They  have    left   the  lands  where  the  walnut 
lines 

The  roads,  and  the  chestnuts  blow  ; 
Beneath  them  the  thread  of  the  cataract  shines, 
Around  them  the  plumes  of  the  warrior  pines, 

Above  them  the  rock  and  the  snow. 

Thick  on  his  shoulders  the  foam  flakes  lay, 

Fast  the  big  drops  roll  from  his  chest, 
Yet  on,  ever  on,  goes  the  gallant  Grey, 
Bearing  the  maiden  as  smoothly  as  spray 
Asleep  on  the  ocean's  breast. 

Onward  and  upward,  bound  after  bound, 
By  Bruno's  Bridge  he  goes; 


CHRISTINE.  97 

And  now  they  are  treading  holy  ground, 
For  the  feet  of  her  flying  Caliph  sound 
By  the  cells  of  the  Grand  Chartreuse. 

Around  them  the  darkling  cloisters  frown, 
The  sun  in  the  valley  hath  sunk; 

When  right  in  her  path,  lo  !  the  long  white 
gown, 

The  withered  face  and  the  shaven  crown 
And  the  shrivelled  hand  of  a  monk. 

A  light  like  a  glittering  halo  played 
Round  the  brow  of  the  holy  man  ; 
With  lifted  finger  her  course  he  stayed, 
"All  is  not  well,"  the  pale  lips  said, 
"With  the  heir  of  Miolan. 

"But  in  Chambery  hangs  a  relic  rare 

Over  the  altar  stone : 
5 


98  CHRISTINE. 

Take  it,  and  speed  to  thy  Bridegroom's  bier; 
If  the  Sacristan  question  who  sent  thee  there, 
Say,  '  Bruno,  the  Monk  of  Cologne.' " 

She  bent    to    the    mane  while  the    cross    ho 

signed 

Thrice  o'er  the  suppliant  head : 
"  Away  with  thee,  child !"  and  away  like  the 

wind 

She  went,  with  a  startled  glance  behind, 
For  she  heard  an  ominous  tread. 

The  moon  is  up,  'tis  a  glorious  night, 
They  are  leaving  the  rock  and  the  snow, 
Mont  Blanc  is  before  her,  phantom  white, 
While  the  swift  Isere,  with  its  line  of  light, 
Cleaves  the  heart  of  the  valley  below. 

But  hark  to  the  challenge, "  Who  rideth  alone  V — 
"O  warder,  bid  me  not  wait!-- 


CHRISTINE. 


.My  lover   lies   dead    and    the    Dauphin   o'er- 
thrown — 

A   message    I    bear    from    the   Monk  of   Co 
logne" — 
And  she  swept  thro'  Chanibery's  gate. 


The  Sacristan  kneeleth  in  midnight  prayer 

By  Chanibery's  altar  stone. 
"  "NYhat  meaneth  this  haste,  my  daughter  fair  ?" 
She  stooped  and  murmured  in  his  ear 

The  name  of  the  Monk  of  Cologne. 

Slowly  he  took  from  its  jewelled  case 
A  kerchief  that  sparkled  like  snow, 
And  the  Minster  shone  like  a  lighted  vase 
As  the  deacon  unveiled  the  gleaming  face 
Of  the  Santo  Sudario. 

A  prayer,  a  tear,  and  to  saddle  she  springs, 
Clasping  the  relic  bright ; 


100  CHRISTINE. 

Awayj  away,  for  the  fell  hoof  rings 

Down  the  hillside  behind  her — God  give  her 


wings ! 


The  fiend  and  his  horse  are  in  sight. 

On,  on,  the  gorge  of  the  Doriat  's  won, 
She  is  nearing  her  Savoyard's  home, 

By   the    grand    old    road   where    the    warrior 
son 

Of  Ilanno  swept  with  his  legions  dun, 
On  his  mission  of  •'hatred  to  Home. 

The  ancient  oaks  seem  to  rock  and  reel 

As  the  forest  rushes  by  her, 
But  nearer  cometh  the  clash  of  steel, 
And  nearer  falleth  the  fatal  heel, 

"With  its  flickering  trail  of  fire. 

Then  first  the  brave  young  heart  grew  sick 
'Neath  its  load  of  love  and  fear, 


CHRISTINE.  101 

For  the  Grey  is  breathing  faint  and  quick, 
And  his  nostrils  burn  and  the  drops  fall  thick 
From  the  point  of  each  drooping  ear. 

His  glorious  neck  hath  lost  its  pride, 
His  back  fails  beneath  her  weight, 
"While  steadily  gaining,  stride  by  stride, 
The  Black  Knight  thunders  to  her  side — 
Heaven,  must  she  meet  her  fate? 

She  shook  the  loose  rein  o'er   the   trembling 

head, 

She  laid  her  soft  hand  on  his  mane, 
She  called  him  her  Caliph,  her  desert-bred, 
She  named  the  sweet  springs  where  the  palm  trees 

spread 
Their  arms  o'er  the  burning  plain. 

But  the  Grey  looked  back  and  sadly  scanned 
The  maid  with  his  earnest  eyes — 


102  CHRISTINE. 

A  moment  more  and  her  cheek  is  fanned 
"By  the  black  steed's  breath,  and  the   demon 

hand 
Stretches  out  for  the  virgin  prize. 

But  she  calls  on  Christ,  and  the  kerchief  white 

Waves  full  in  the  face  of  her  foe : 
Back  with  an  oath  reeled  the  "Wizard  Knight 
As    his   steed    crouched  low  in  the   wondrous 

light 
Of  the  Santo  Sudario. 

Blinded  they  halt  while  the  maiden  hies, 
The  murmuring  Arc  she  can  hear, 

And,  lo !  like  a  cloud  on  the  shining  skies, 

Atop  of  yon  perilous  precipice, 
The  castle  of  Miolan's  Heir. 

"  Fail  not,  my  steed !" — Eound  her  Caliph's  head 
The  relic  shines  like  the  sun: 


CHRISTINE.  103 

Leap  after  leap  up  the  spiral  steep, 
lie  speeds  to  liis  master's  castle  keep, 
And  his  glorious  race  is  won. 

"  Ho,  warder !" — At  sight  of  the  gallant  Grey 

The  drawbridge  thundering  falls: 
"Wide  goes  the  gate  at  that  jubilant  neigh, 
And,  glory  to  God  for  his  mercy  to-day, 
She  is  safe  within  Miolan's  walls. 


THE    FIFTH 


THE    FIFTH    SONG. 


In  the  dim  grey  dawn  by  Miolan's  gate 
The  fiend  on  his  wizard  war-horse  sate. 
The  fair-haired  maid  at  his  trumpet  call 
Creeps  weeping  and  wan  to  the  outer  wall : 
u  My  curse  on  thy  venom,  my  curse  on  thy  spell, 
They  have  slain  the  master  I  loved  too  well. 
Thou  saidst  he  should  wake  when  the  joust  was 

o'er, 

But  oh,  he  never  will  waken  more !" 
She  tore  her  fair  hair,  while  the  demon  laughed, 
Saying,  "Sound  was  the   sleep  that  thy  lover 

quaffed ; 

But  bid  the  warder  unbar  the  gate, 
That  the  lost  Christine  may  meet  her  fate." 


108  CHRISTINE. 


II. 

"  Hither,  hither  thou  mailed  man 
With  those  woman's  tears  in  thine  eyes, 

With  thy  brawny  cheek  all  wet  and  wan, 

Show  me  the  heir  of  Miolan, 

Lead  where  my  Bridegroom  lies." 

And  he  led  her  on  with  a  sullen  tread, 

That  fell  like  a  muffled  groan, 
Through  halls  as  silent  as  the  dead, 
'Neath  long  grey  arches  overhead, 

Till  they  came  to  the  shrine  of  Moan. 

What  greets  her  there  by  the  torches'  glare? 

In  vain  hath  the  mass  been  said! 
Low  bends  the  sire  in  mute  despair, 
Low  kneels  the  Hermit  in  silent  prayer, 

Between  them  the  mighty  dead. 


CHRISTINE.  109 

No  tear  she  shed,  no  word  she  spoke, 

Bat  gliding  up  to  the  bier, 
She  took  her  stand  by  the  bed  of  oak 
"Where  her  Savoyard  lay  in  his  sable  cloak, 

His  hand  still  fast  on  his  spear. 

She  bent  her  burning  cheek  to  his, 

And  rested  it  there  awhile, 
Then     touched     his     lips    with     a     lingering- 
kiss, 
And    whispered     him    thrice,      "  My      love, 

arise, 
I  have  come  for  thee  many  a  mile !" 

The  man  of  God  and  the  ancient  Knight 

Arose  in  tremulous  awe; 
She  was  so  beautiful,  so  bright, 
So  spirit-like  in  her  bridal  white, 
It  seemed  in  the  dim  funereal  light 

'Twas  an  angel  that  they  saw. 


110  CHRISTINE. 

"  Thro'  forest  fell,  o'er  mount  and  dell, 

Like  the  falcon,  hither  I've  flown, 
For  I  knew  that>a  fiend  was  loose  from  hell, 
And  I  bear  a  token  to  break  this  spell 
From  Bruno,  the  Monk  of  Cologne. 

"  Dost  thou  know  it,  love  ?  when  fire  and  sword 

Flamed  round  the  Holy  Shrine, 
It  was  won  by  thee  from  the  Paynim  horde, 
It  was  brought  by  thee  to  Bruno's  guard, 

A  gift  from  Palestine. 

"  "Wake,  wake,  my  love  !    In  the  name  of  Grace, 

That  hath  known  our  uttermost  woe, 
Lo !  this  thorn-crowned  brow  on  thine  I  place  !" 
And,  once  more  revealed,  shone  the  wondrous  face 
Of  the  Santo  Sudario. 

At  once  over  all   that  ancient  hall 
There  went  a  luminous  beam  ; 


CHRISTINE.  Ill 

Heaven's  deepest  radiance  seemed  to  fall, 
The  helmets  shine  on  the  shining  wall, 
And  the  faded  banners  gleam. 


And  the  chime  of  hidden  cymbals  rings 

To  the  song  of  a  cherub  choir ; 
Each  altar  angel  waves  his  wings, 
And  the  flame  of  each  altar  taper  springs 
Aloft  in  a  luminous  spire. 

And  over  the  face  of  the  youth  there  broke 

A  smile  both  stern  and  sweet ; 

Slowly  he  turned  on  the  bed  of  oak, 

And  proudly  folding  his  sable  cloak 

Around  him,  sprang  to  his  feet. 


Back  shrank  the  sire,  half  terrified, 
Both  he  and  the  Hermit,  I  ween ; 


112 


CHRISTINE. 


But  she — she  is  fast  to  her  Savoyard's  side, 
A  poet's  dream,  a  warrior's  bride, 
Ilis  beautiful  Christine. 


Her  hair's  dark  tangles  all  astray 

Adown  her  back  and  breast ; 
The  print  of  the  rein  on  her  hand  still  lay, 
The  foam-flakes  of  the  gallant  Grey 

Scarce  dry  on  her  heaving  breast. 

She  told  the  dark  tale  and  how  she  spurred 

From  the  Knight  of  Pilate's  Peak ; 
You  scarce  would  think  the  Bridegroom  heard, 
Save  that  the  mighty  lance-head  stirred, 
Save  fgr  the  flush  in  his  cheek ; 


Save  that  his  gauntlet  clasped  her  hair — 
And  oh.  the  look  that  swept 


CHRISTINE.  113 

Between  them ! — all  the  radiant  air 
Grew  holier — it  was  like  a  prayer — 
And  they  who  saw  it  wept. 

E'en  the  lights  on  the  altar  brighter  grew 
In  the  gleam  of  that  heavenly  gaze ; 

The  cherub  music  fell  soft  as  dew, 

The    breath   of    the    censer    seemed    sweeter 
too, 

The  torches  mellowed  their  requiem  hue, 
And  burnt  with  a  bridal  blaze. 

And  the  Baron  clasps  his  son  with  a  cry 

Of  joy  as  his  sorrows  cease  ; 
While  the  Hermit,  wrapt  in  his  Rosary, 
Feels  that  the  world  beneath  the  sky 

Hath  yet  its  planet  of  peace. 

But  hark !  by  the  drawbridge,  shrill  and  clear, 
A  trumpet's  challenge  rude  ; 


CHRISTINE. 

The  heart  of  Christine  grew  faint  with  fear, 
But  the  Savoyard  shook  his  mighty  spear, 
And  the  blood  in  his  forehead  stood. 

"  Beware,  beware,  'tis  the  Fiend !"  quoth  she : 
"Whither  now?"  asks  the  ancient  Knight, 

"  "What  meanest  thou,  boy  ? — Leave  the  knave  tc 
me: 

Wizard,  or  fiend,  or  whatever  he  be, 

By  the  bones  of  my  fathers,  he  shall  flee 
Or  ne'er  look  on  morning  light. 

"  What,  thou  just  risen  from  the  grave, 

Atilt  with  an  armed  man  ? 
Dost  dream  that  youth  alone  is  brave, 
Dost  deem  these  sinews  too  old  to  save 

The  honor  of  MiolanT 

But  the  youth  he  answered  with  gentlest  tone. 
"I  know  thec  a  warrior  staunch, 


CHRISTINE.  115 

But  this  meeting  is  meant  for  me  alone. 

o 

Unhand  me,  my  lord,  have  I  woman  grown  ? 
"Wouldst  stop  the  rushing  of  the  Ehone, 
Or  stay  the  avalanche  ?" 

• 
lie  broke  from  his  sire  as  breaks  the  flash 

From  the  soul  of  the  circling  storm : 
You    could    hear    the    grasp    of    his    gauntlet 

crash 
On  his  quivering  lance  and  the  armor  clash 

Hound  that  tall  young  warrior  form. 

"  Be  this  thy  shield  ?"  the  maiden  cried, 
Her  hand  on  the  kerchief  of  snow; 

"  If  forth  to  the  combat  thou  wilt  ride, 

Face  to  face  be  the  Fiend  defied 
With  the  Santo  Sudario  !" 

But  the  young  Knight  laid  the  relic  rare 
On  the  ancient  altar- stone  ; 


11G  CIIEISTINE. 

"  Holy  weapons  to  men  of  prayer, 
Lance  in  rest  and  falcliion  bare 
Must  answer  for  Miolan's  son." 

Again  the  challenger's  trumpet  pealed 
From  the  barbican,  shrill  and  clear  ; 
And  the  Savoyard  reared  his  dinted  shield 
Its  motto,  gold  on  an  azure  field — 
"  ALLES  zu  GOTT  UND  IHK." 

To    horse !  —  From    the    hills    the    dawning 
day 

Looks  down  on  the  sleeping  plain; 
In  the  court-yard  waiteth  the  gallant  Grey, 
And  the  castle  rings  with  a  joyous  neigh 

As  the  Knight  and  his  steed  meet  again. 

And  the  coal-black  charger  answers  him 


117" 


From  the  level  space,  where  dark  and  dim 
In  the  morning  mists,  like  giant  grim, 
The  Fiend  on  his  war-horse  sate. 

Oh,     the     men     at    arms     how    they    stared 
aghast 

"When  the  Heir  of  Miolan  leapt 
To  saddle-bow  sounding  his  bugle-blast  ; 
How  the  startled  warder  breathless  gasped, 

How  the  hoary  old  seneschal  wept  ! 

And    the    fair-haired  maid  with    a    sob    hath 
sprung 

To  the  lifted  bridle  rein  ; 
Fast  to  his  knee  her  white  arms  clung, 
While  the  waving  gold  of  her  fair  hair  hung 

Mixed  with  Grey  Caliph's  mane. 

k'  O  Miolan's  heir,  O  master  mine, 
O  more  than  heaven  adored, 


118  CHRISTINE. 

Live  to  forget  this  slave  of  tliine, 
Wed  the  dark-eyed  Maid  of  Palestine, 
But  dare  not  yon  demon  sword  !" 

But  the  Baron  thundered,  "  Off  with  the  slave  !" 
And  they  tore  the  white  arms  away, 

"  A  woman 's  a  curse  in  the  path  of  the  brave  ; 

Level  thy  lance  and  upon  the  knave, 
For  he  laughs  at  this  fool  delay  ! 

"But  pledge  me  first  in  this  beaker  bright 

Of  foaming  Cyprian  wine ; 
Thou  hast  fasted,  God  wot,  like  an  anchorite, 
Thy  cheeks  and  brow  are  a  trifle  white, 
And,  'fore  heaven,  thou  shall  bear  thee  in  this 
fight 

As  beseemeth  son  of  mine  !" 

The  youth  drank  deep  of  the  burning  juice 
Of  the  mighty  Maretel, 


CimiSTINE.  119 

Then,  waving  his  hand  to  his  Ladye  thrice. 
Swifter  than  snow  from  the  precipice, 
Spurred  full  on  the  infidel. 

"  O  Bridegroom  bold,  beware  my  brand  !" 

The  Knight  of  Pilate  cries, 
"  For  'tis  written  in  blood  by  Eblis'  hand, 
No  mortal  might  may  mine  withstand 

Till  the  dead  in  arms  arise." 

"  The  dead  are  up,  and  in   arms  arrayed, 
They  have  come  at  the  call  of  fate  : 

Two    days,   two   nights,  as  thou  Imow'st,  I've 
laid 

On  oaken  bier" — and  again  there  played 

That  halo  light  round  the  Mother  Maid 
In  the  niche  by  the  castle  gate. 

Each  warrior  reared  his  shining  targe, 
Each  plumed  helmet  bent, 


120  C  II  KISTINE. 

Each  lance  thrown  forward  for  the  charge, 
Each  steed  reined  back  to  the  very  marge 
Of  the  mountain's  sheer  descent. 

The  rock  beneath  them  seemed  to  groan 

And  shudder  as  they  met; 
Away  the  splintered  lance  is  thrown, 
Each  falchion  in  the  morning  shone, 

One  blade  uncrimsoned  yet. 

But  the  blood  must  flow  and  that  blade  must 
glow 

E'er  their  deadly  work  be  done; 
Steel  rang  to  steel,  blow  answered  blow, 
From  dappled  dawn  till  the  Alpine  snow 

Grew  red  in  the  risen  sun. 

The  Bridegroom's  sword  left  a  lurid  trail, 
So  fiercely  and  fleetly  it  flew; 


CHRISTINE.  121 

It  rang  like  the  rattling  of  the  hail, 
And  wherever  it  fell  the  sable  mail 
"Was  wet  with  a  ghastly  dew. 

• 

The  Baron,  watching  with  stern  delight, 
Felt  the  heart  in  his  bosom  swell ; 

And     quoth     he,     "By     the   mass,    a     gallanl 
sight ! 

These  old  eyes  have  gazed  on  many  a  fight, 

But,  boy,  as  I  live,  never  saw  I  knight 
Who  did  his  devoir  so  well !" 

And  oh,  the  flush  o'er  his  face  that  broke, 

The  joy  of  his  shining  eyes, 
When,  backward  beaten,  stroke  by  stroke-, 
The  Wizard  reeled,  like  a  falling  oak, 

Toward  the  edge  of  the  .precipice. 

On  the  trembling  verge  of  that  perilous  steep 

The  demon  stood  at  bay, 
6 


122  CHRIST  IXE. 

Calling  with  challenge  stem  and  deep, 
That  startled  the  inmost  castle  keep, 
k*  Daughter  of  mine,  here's  a  dainty  leap 
TTe.must  take  together  to-day. 

"  Come,  maiden,  come !"    Swift  circling  round, 

Like  bird  in  the  serpent's  gaze, 
She  sprang  to  his  side  with  a  single  bound, 
"While  the  black  steed  trampled  the  flinty  ground 

To  fire,  his  nostrils  ablaze. 

"  Farewell  1"  went  the  fair-haired  maiden's  cry, 

Shrilling  from  hill  to  hill; 
"Farewell,  farewell,  it  was  I,  'twas  I, 
AVho  sinned  in  a  jealous  agony, 

But  I  loved  the*  too  well  to  kill !" 

High  reared  the  steed  with  the  hapless  pair, 

A  plunge,  a  pause,  a  shriek, 
A  black  plume  loose  in  the  middle  air, 


CHRISTINE 

A  foaming  plasli  in  the  dark  Isere, — 
Thus  vanished  for  ever  the  maiden  fair 
And  the  Knight  of  Pilate's  Peak. 

A  mighty  cheer  shook  the  ancient  halls, 
A  white  hand  waved  in  the  sun, 

The  vassals  all  on  the  outer  wall 

Clashed  their  arms  at  the  brave  old  Baron's  call, 
"  To  my  arms,  mine  only  one !" 

But  oh,  what  aileth  the  gallant  Grey, 

Why  droopeth  the  barbed  head  ? 
Slowly  he  turned  from  that  fell  tourney 
And  proudly  breathing  a  long,  last  neigh, 
At  the  castle  gate  fell  dead. 


121  CHRISTINE. 


III. 


Lost  to  all  else,  forgotten  e'en 
The  dark  eyes  of  his  dear  Christine, 
His  fleet  foot  from  the  stirrup   freed, 
The  Knight  knelt  by  his  fallen  steed. 
Awhile  with  tone  and  touch  of  love 
To  cheer  him  to  his  feet  he  strove : 
Awhile  he  shook  the  bridle-rein — 
That  glazing  eye ! — alas,  in  vain. 
Bareheaded  on  that  fatal  field, 
His  gauntlet  ringing  on  his   shield, 
His  voice  a  torrent  deep  and  strong, 
The  warrior's  soul  broke  forth  in  son<?. 


CHRISTINE.  125 


THE   KNIGHT'S    SONG. 

And  art  them,  art  thou  dead  ? — 
Thou  with  front  that  might  defy 
The  gathered  thunders  of  the  sky, 
Thou  before  whose  fearless  eye 

All  death  and  danger  fled  ! 

My  Khalif,  hast  thou  sped 
Homeward  where  the  palm-trees'  feet 
Bathe  in  hidden  fountains  sweet, 
Where  first  we  met  as  lovers  meet, 

My  own,  my  desert-bred! 

Thy  back  has  been  my  home  ; 
And,  bending  o'er  thy  flying  neck, 


12G  OHEISTINE. 

Its  white  mane  "waving  -without  speck, 
I  seemed  to  tread  the  galley's  deck, 
And  cleave  the  ocean's  foam. 


Since  first  I  -felt  thy  heart 
Proudly  surging  'neath  my  knee, 
As  earthquakes  heave  beneath  the  sea, 
Brothers  in  the  field  were  we  ; 

And  must  we,  can  we  part? 

i 
To  match  thee  there  was  none  ! 

The  wind  was  laggard  to  thy  speed: 
O  God,  there  is  no  deeper  need 
Than  warrior's  parted  from  his  steed 
When  years  have  made  them  one. 

And  shall  I  never  more 
Answer  thy  laugh  amid  the  clash 


CHRISTINE.  127 

Of  battle,  see  tliee  meet  the  flasli 
Of  spears  with  the  proud,  pauseless  dash 
Of  billows  on  the  shore  ? 


And  all  our  victor  war, 
And  all  the  honors  men  call  mine, 
"Were  thine,  thou  voiceless  warrior,  thine  ; 
My  task  was  but  to  touch  the  rein — 

There  needed  nothing-  more. 


Worst  danger  had  no  sting 
For  thee,  and  coward  peace  no  charm ; 
Amid  red  havoc's  worst  alarm 
Thy  swoop  as  firm  as  through  the  etorm 

The  eagle's  iron  wing. 

O  more  than  man  to  me! 
Thy  neigh  outsoared  the  trumpet's  tone, 


128  CHRISTINE. 

Thy  back  was  better  than  a  throne, 
There  was  no  human  thing  save  one 
I  loved  as  well  as  thee ! 


O  Knighthood's  truest  friend  ! 
Brave  heart  by  every  danger  tried, 
Proud  crest  by  conquest  glorified, 
Swift  saviour  of  my  menaced  Bride, 

Is  this,  is  this  the  end  ? — 


Thrice  honored  be  thy  grave! 
Wherever  knightly  deed  is  sung, 
Wherever  minstrel  harp  is  strung, 
There  too  thy  praise  shall  sound  among 

The  beauteous  and  the  brave. 


And  thou  shalt  slumber  deep 
Beneath  our  chapel's  cypress  sheen ; 


CHRISTINE.  129 

And  there  thy  lord  and  his  Christine 
Full  oft  shall  watch  at  morn  and  e'en 
Around  their  Khalifs  sleep. 

There  shalt  thou  wait  for  me 
Until  the  funeral  bell  shall  ring, 
Until  the  funeral  censer  swing, 
For  I  would  ride  to  meet  my  King, 

My  stainless  steed,  \rith  thee ! 


The  song  has  ceased,  and  not  an  eye 
'Mid  all  those  mailed  men  is  dry ; 
The  brave  old  Baron  turns  aside 
To  crush  the  tear  he  cannot  hide. 
With  stately  step  the  Bridegroom  went 
To  where,  upon  the  battlement, 
Christine  herself,  all  weeping,  leant. 


130  CHRISTIXE. 

"Well  might  that  crested  warrior  kneel 
At  such  a  shrine,  well  might  he  feel 
As  if  the  angel  in  her  eyes 
Gave  all  that  hallows  Paradise. 
And  when  her  white  hands'  tender  spell 
Upon  his  trembling  shoulder  fell, 
Upward  one  reverent  glance  he  cast, 
Then,  rising,  murmured,  "Mine  at  last!" 


"  Yes,  thine  at  last !"    Still  stained  with  blood, 
The  Dauphin's  self  beside  them  stood. 
"Fast  as  mortal  steed  could  flee, 
My  own  Christine,'!  followed  thee. 
Saint  George,  but  'twas  a  gallant  sight 
That  miscreant  hurled  from  yonder  height  : 
Brave  boy,  that  single  sword  of  thine, 
Methinks,  might  hold  all  Palestine. 
But  see,  from  out  the  shrine  of  Moan 
Cometh  the  good  Monk  of  Cologne, 


CHRISTINE.  131 

Bearing  the  relic  rare  that  woke 

Our  warrior  from  his  bed  of  oak. 

See  him  pass  with  folded  hands 

To  where  the  shaded  chapel  stands. 

The  Bridegroom  well  hath  won  the  prize, 

There  stands  the  priest,  and  there  the  altar  lies." 


132  CHRISTINE. 


IV. 


When  the  moon  rose  o'er  lordly  Miolan 

Tliat   night,  she  wondered   at   those  ancient 
walls : 

Bright  tapers  flashing  from  a  hundred  halls 
Lit  all  the  mountain — liveried  vassals  ran 

Trailing   from  bower  to  bower  the  wine-cup, 
wreathed 

"With  festal  roses — viewless  music  breathed 
A  minstrel  melody,  that  fell  as  falls 

The  dew,  less  heard  than  felt ;  and  maidens 
laughed, 

Aiming  their  curls  at  swarthy  men  who  quaffed 
Brimmed  beakers  to  the  newly  wed :  while  some 

Old  henchmen,  lolling  on  the  court-yard  green 

Over  their  squandered  Cyprus,  vowed  between 
Their  cups,  "  there  was  no  pair  in  Christendom 

To  match  their  Savoyard  and  his  Christine  T 


CHRISTINE  103 

The  Trovere  ceased:  none  praised  the  lay, — 

Each  waited  to  hear  what  the  King  would  say. 

But  the  grand  blue  eye  was  on  the  wave, 

Little  recked  he  of  the  tuneless  stave : 

He  was  watching  a  bark  just  anchored  fast 

With  England's  banner  at  her  mast, 

And  quoth  he  to  the  Queen,  "  By  my  halidome, 

I  wager  our  Bard  Blondel  hath  come!" 

E'en  as  he  spoke,  a  joyous  cry 

From  the  beach  proclaimed  the  Master  nigh; 

But  the  merry  cheer  rose  merrier  yet 

When  the  Monarch  and  his  Minstrel  met, 

The  Prince  of  Song  and  Plantagenet. 

"  A  song  1"  cried  the  King.    "  Thou  art  just  in 

time 

To  rid  our  ears  of  a  vagrant's  rhyme : 
Prove  how  that  recreant  voice  of  thine 
Hath  thriven  at  Cyprus,  bard  of  mine!" 
The  Minstrel  played  with  his  golden  wrest, 
And  began  the  "  Fytte  of  the  Bloody   Vest." 


134  CHKISTINE. 

The  vanquished  Trovere  stole  away 
Unmarked  by  lord  or  ladye  gay : 
Perchance  one  quick,  kind  glance  he  caught, 
Perchance  that  glance  was  all  he  sought. 
For  when  Blondel  would  pause  to  tune 
His  harp  and  supplicate  the  moon, 
It  seemed  as  tho'  the  laughing  sea 
Caught  up  the  vagrant  melody; 
And  far  along  the  listening  shore, 
Till  every  wave  the  burthen  bore, 
In  long,  low  echoes  might  you  hear — 
"AUes,  Attes  zu  Gott  und 


POEMS. 


RAPHAEL    SANZIO. 

KEEP  to  the  lines — strain  not  a  hair  beyond : 
Nature  must  hold  her  laws  e'en  against  Hell. 
There  you  o'ershoot  the  mark  an  inch — you  paint 
A  lie  a  minute.     Giulio,  keep  the  lines — 
The  lines — my  lines  !     They  tell  the  very  worst 
The  devil  can  do  with  flesh — let  Angelo 
Do  more.    I  want  no  second  Spasimo, 
No  miracles  of  muscle :  on  the  Mount 
Is  miracle  enough — the  radiant  change 
Of  man  to  Deity:  no  need  to  make 
The  boy  a  fiend  outright — for  see  you  not 
Though  God's  own  likeness  lives  there  in  his 

Son, 

Ours  is  not  lost.     So  keep  the  lines,  nor  hope 
To  mend  their  meaning.   Wrong  again  ?  Hence 

forth 


138  EAPHAEL      SANZI. 

Kcserve  your  brush  to  gild  the  booth,  or  deck 
Street  corners.    Friends,  forsooth — you  Raphael's 

friend — 

And  yet  you  will  not  keep  my  lines — the  last 
This  hand  shall  ever  trace  ? — By  Bacchus,  Sir, 
It  had  made  the  hot  blood  of  old  Pietro  boil 
Had  I  e'er  crazed  his  purpose  so.  Have  done 
With  this:  your  lampblack  darkens  all  the  air. 
Must  you  o'erride  me  with  that  wild,  coarse 

soul 

Of  yours  ?  My  hand  is  still  upon  the  rein  : 
There's  time  enough  to  run  your  fiery  race 
When  I  am  gone  ?  Why,  what  a  burst  of 

tears  ! 

I  am  not  dying :  wherefore  do  you  stare, 
With  such  a  frightened  love,  into  nrf  face? 
Your  hand  all  palsied  ?    Ah,  I  see  it  now — 
You  feel  too  much  for  me,  to  feel  for  art. 
Forgive  my  first  unkindness:  by  and  by, 
When  I  am  out  of  sight,  and  manly  grief 


RAPHAEL      SANZIO.  139 

Has   done  with  tear   and  tremor — then,  some 

day, 

When  your  good  hand  is  steady  and  you  feel 
The  stirring  of  the  true  God — to  your  brush, 
And  keep  my  lines! 

This  is  my  birthday,  Giulio; 
The  last  one  here — the  first,  perhaps,  in  Heaven, 
"With    our    dear   Angels.      'Twas   a  grain    too 

much, 

That  brief  about  restoring  ancient  Rome : 
His  Holiness  and  I,  we  both  forgot 
Raphael  was  human.  Princely  favor,  sometimes, 
Falls  overheavy,  like  the  Sabine  bracelet. 
For  those  damp  vaults — their  chill  struck  to  my 

heart 

Like  the  sharp  finger  of  a  skeleton, 
While  all  the  caverned  ruin  whispered  out 
"  Behold  the  end !"    Too  soon,  I  thought,— but 

God 


140  RAPHAEL      SANZIO. 

Thinks  best.     I  do  not  wish  to  die — should  like 
To  last  a  little  longer,  just  to  see 
That  picture  finished,  and  to  have  our  work 
Judged  in  the  peopled  halls,  swung  side  by  side, 
Michael's  and  mine !  ;  But  do  not  turn  your 

head — 

Sit  closer.";  Giulio,  men  have  eaid  I  slumbered 
Over  those  later  frescos  and  the  walls 
Of  Agostino — they  are  right,  I  did. 
But  slumbering  there  in  whitest  arms,  I  learned, 
'Mid   all  those  Nymphs  and  Graces,  this   one 

truth— 

The  inspiration  of  the  nude  is  over: 
The  Christian  Jfuse  is  draped. — Tell  Michael 

so, 

When  next  you  find  him  busy  with  his  Torso. 
How  then  that  bare  Demoniac,  do  you  ask  ? 
"Was't  not  an  artist's  thought — the  double  change 
Of  man  to  God  above,  to  fiend  below  ? 
And  then  the  instant  the  redeeming  foot 


II  A  P  II  A  E  L       S  A  X  Z  I  O  .  li-L 

Forsakes  the  earth,  to  loose  the  naked  devil 
Flaunting  the  scared  Apostles  ?    Who  shall  say 
Art  called    not  for  my  boy  ?     Yet  thrice  as 

loud 

As  art,  called  Raphael !     For  myself  alone 
I  drew  him,  every  quivering  muscle  mapped 
By  the  infernal  strain,  that  I  might  hush 
Those  sneers  of  Angelo's, — for  I  had  plucked 
His  surgeon  secrets  from  the  grave,  and  meant 
To  mate  him  where  he's  matchless.      I  have 

waited 

The  coming  of  that  moment  when  we  feel 
The  hand  is  surest,  the  brain  clearest — when 
Our  dreams  at  once   are  deeds — when  upward 

goes 

The  curtain  from  the  clouded  soul,  and  art 
Flames  all  her  unveiled  Paradise  upon  us. 
Patiently,  trustingly  that  well-known  hour 
I've  waited — and,  at  last,  it  comes — too  late  ! 
For  now,  you  see,  'tis  hard  to  reach  my  hand 


14:2  K  A  T  H  A  E  L      SANZIO. 

To  your  sleek  curls,  and  my  poor  head  seems 

chained 

To  this  hot  pillow.     Had  I  now   a  tithe 
Of  half  the  strength  I  fooled  on  Chigi's  walls, 
I'd  make  the  demon  in  that  youth  discourse 
Anatomy  enough  to  cram  the  schools 
Till  doomsday.     Heaven,  how  plainly  there 
Your  work  stands  off  from  mine !     Quick  with 

your  arm — 

I  feel  the  ancient  power — give  me  the  colors— 
I  and  my  picture,  let  us  once  more  meet! 
God  let  me  finish  it !     Can  you  not  stir 
My  bed  with  those  etout  shoulders?     Then  lift 

me — 
Child's  play  you'll  find   it — my  weak,  woman's 

frame 
ISTever  weighed    much — a    breath    can  float  it 

'now. 

Do  as  I  bid  you,  boy,  I   am  not  mad : 
'Tis  not  delirium,  but  returning  life. 


K  A  P  H  A  E  L      SANZIO.  143 

0  for  the  blood  that  barber's  lancet  stole ! — 
So — nearer — nearer 

1  was  dreaming,  Giulio, 

That  I  had  finished  it,  and  that  it  hung 
Beside  their  Lazarus;   I  and  Angelo 
Together  stood — a  little  farther  off, 
That  pack-horse  colorist  of  his  from  Yenice. 
There  stood  we  in  the  light  of  yonder  face, 

1  and  my  rival,  till,  asudden,  shone 

A  look  of  love  in  the  small  hazel  eyes, 
And  down  the  double  pointed  beard  a  tear 
Kan    sparkling.;    and    he    bowed   his   head    to 

me — 
The    grand,    gray,    haughty    head — and    cried 

aloud, 
Thrice  cried  aloud  "  HAIL  MASTER  !" — Why,  'tis 


How  came  I  here — these  colors  on  my  fingers — 
This  brush  ?    Stop — let  me  think — I  am  not  quite 


144  RAPHAEL      8ANZIO. 

Awake.     Ah,  I  remember.     Swooned,  you  say  ? 
How  long  have  I  been  lying  thus?     An  hour 
Dead  on  your  breast?    "Wheel  back  the  bed — 

put  by 

These  playthings  !  I  can  do  no  more  for  man ! 
And  God,  who  did  so  much  for  me — 'tis  time 
Something  were  done  for  Him.  A  coach  ? 

Perhaps 

The  black  mules  of  the  Cardinal?    No?   Well, 
Good  Friday  is  the  prayer-day  of  the  year — 
That  keeps  him.     Who  ? — What !  Leo's  self  has 

sent 

To  ask  of  Raphael  ?    Kindly  done ;  and  yet 
The  iron  Pontiff,  whom  I  painted  thrice, 
Had    come.      No     matter,    these    are    gracious 

words, — 
" Rome  were  not  Home  without  me"    My  best 

thanks 

Back  to  his  Holiness;  and  dare  I  add 
A  message,  'twere  that  Rome  can  never  be 


RAPHAEL      SANZIO.  145 

Without  me.    I  shall  live  as  long  as  Rome ! 
Bramante's  temple  there,  bequeathed  to  me 
To  hide  her  cross-crowned  bosom  in  the  clouds — 
San  Pietro — travertine  and  marble  massed 
To  more  than  mountain  majesty — shall  scarce 
Outlast  that  bit  of  canvas.     Let  the  light  in. 
There's  the  Ritonda  waiting  patiently 
My  coming.     Angelo  has  built  his  chape 
In  Santa  Croce,  that  his  eyes  may  ope 
On  Ser  Filippo's  Duomo.     I  would  see — 
What  think    you? — neither    dome    nor    Giotto's 

shaft, 

Nor  yon  stern  Pantheon's  solemn,  sullen  grace, 
But  Her,  whose    colors  I  have  worn,  since  first 
I  dreamed  of  beauty  in  the  chestnut  shades 
Of  Umbria — HER,  for  whom  my  best  of  life 
Has  been  one  labor — HER,  the  Nazareth  Maid, 
Who  gave  to  Heaven  a  Queen,  to  man  a  God, 
To  God  a  Mother.     I  have  hope  of  it ! — 
And  I  would  see  her — not  as  when  she  props 


146  RAPHAEL      SANZIO. 

The  babe  siow  tottering  to  the  Cross  amid 
The  flowering  field, — nor  yet  when,  Sybil-eyed, 
Backward    she    sweeps    her    Son  from    Tobit's 

Fish 
ier  e'en  as  when  above  the  footstool  angels, 
She  stands  with  trembling  mouth,  dilated  eyes, 
Abashed     before     the     uncurtained     Father's 

throne, — 

But   see  her  wearing   the  rapt  smile  of   love 
Half  human,  half  divine,  as  fast  she  strains 
Her  infant  in  the  Chair. 

There  is  a  step 

Upon  the  staircase.    Has  she  come  again  ? 
She    must    not    enter.       Take    her    these    big 

pearls 

Meant  for  the  poor  dead  bride  I  strove  to  love. 
Tell   her   to  wear   them,  when    the  full    moon 

fires 
The  Flavian  arches,  and  she  wanders  forth 


RAPHAEL      SANZIO.  14:7 

To  the  green  spot — she  will  remember  it: — 
A  little  farther  on.     No  more  of  this. 
Say  but  the  word,  too  long  delayed, — Farewell. 
We  said  it  oft  before,  meaning  it  too — 
But  life  and  love  were  with  us — so  we  met. 
This  time — we  part  in-  earnest.    Not  a  word  ? — 
She  bent  her  head  and  vanished,  leaving  me 
These   flowers?    ~No    tears — not    one?     So  like 

her !     Set 

The  buds  in  water — leave  me  one — this  one — 
"We'll  fade  together.     Giulio,  in  my  will 
Her  name  stands  next  to  yours :     I  would    not 

have 
Those  dark  eyes  look  on  want,  that   looked  on 

me 

So  long,  so  truly.    Do  not  shake  your  head : 
She'll  find  her  way  to  Heaven,  if  I  am  4here 
Before  her.     Jealous? — Brother,  I  will  die 
Upon  your  bosom — you  shall  close  these  eyes, 
Eyes  that  have  lived  above  this  city's  towers, 


148  KAPHAEL      SANZIO. 

Up  where  the  eagle's  wing  hath  never  swept : 
Eyes  that  have  scanned  the  far  side  of  the  sun, 
And  upward  still,  high  over  Hesperus, 
Have  climbed   the   mount  where   trembling  an 
gels  bow, 

And  stolen  the  shining  forms  of  beauty  niched 
Fast  by  the  Eternal  throne.    I  pray  you  hold 
Those  roses  something  nearer. 

Shall  we  send 

Francesco  for  the  Cardinal?    You  see 
The  shadow  of  the  pines  slopes  eastward  now — 
Santa  Maria's  empty  : — he  may  come 
Too   late — there's    a    strange    hush    about    my 

heart 

Already.    Still,  a  word  before  the  last, 
Long  .silence  comes.     I  do  not  think  to  leave 
An  enemy  behind  me:   Angelo 
lias  sometimes  wronged  me,  but  I  cannot  hate — 
I  have  that  weakness — so  I  pitied  him. 


RAPHAEL      S  A  N  Z  I  O  .  149 

Giulio,  the  artist  is  not  lie  who  dreams, 

But  he  who  does; — and  when  I  saw  this  man, 

Hewing  his  way  into  the  marble's  heart 

For    the    sweet    secret    that    he  dreamed  was 

there, 

Till  the  fast  fettered  beauty  perished,  killed 
By  the  false  chisel  and  imperious  hand, 
That  held  no  Heaven-commissioned  key  to  ope 
The  prison  gates — I  pitied  him,  I  say ; 
And  once  I  wept,  as  by  me  once  he  stalked 
Beneath  the  stars,  in  either  eye  a  tear, 
Groaning  beneath  his  load  of  voiceless  beauty. 
I  knew  his  mighty  sorrow — I  had  felt  it, — 
And  who    that    soars  has  not?    No  wing  that 

fans 
The    sun,  but    sometimes  burns !     O    grandest 

Greek, 

Not  thine  alone  to  ravish  fire  from  Heaven, 
Nor  thine  alone  the  rock:   in  every  age, 
The  vulture's  beak  is  in  the  artist's  soul ! 


150  RAPHAEL      SANZIO. 

In   this,  we   are   brothers.     Give   him   my  last 

greeting. 
"When  next  yon  meet. 

The  Cardinal,  at  last. 
Before  he  enters,  Giulio,  lay  this  flower 
Among  the  others. — You  may  leave  us  now. 


ARE  you  so  sick,  dear  ? — 
Oh !  we  assure  you, 
We've  come  to  cure  you — 

Let  us  in — quick  there! 

Did  not  expect  us  ? — 
Fresh  from  the  meadows, 
Sweeter  than  red  rose, 

Can  you  reject  us  ? 

"Will  you  not  hear  us — 
Blue  as  our  eyes  are, 
True  as  our  sighs  are, 

Nobody's  near  us. 


152      A     CARD     FROM     THE      VIOLETS. 

Saint,  can  you  censure 
Such  sweet  physicians — 
Fairy  prescriptions 

"Will  you  not  venture? 

Not  even  try  us  ? — 

Morn's  merry  tear-drops 
On  us — the  deer  stops 

Ere  he  bounds  by  us. 

Bring  us  before  you  ; 

If  you  are  sleeping 

"We  shall  be  peeping 
Sentinels  o'er  you. 

Or  when  we've  found  you, 

If  you  are  waking, 

We  shall  be  shaking 
Perfumes  around  you. 


A     CARD     FROM     THK     VIOLETS.       153 

Poor  little  flowers — 

Angels  might  cherish 

Beauties  that  perish 
Sinless  as  ours. 

And  when  we're  faded — 
Out  of  the  door  there 
Throw  us — there's  more  where 

Our  eyes  were  shaded ! 


THE    LAST    SNOW-WREATH. 

THAT  gray  forest — you  remember, 

It  was  spring's  first  budding  day, 
The  last  snow-wreath  of  December 

On  the  shaded  hillside  lay ; 
And  your  brow,  though  all  was  brightness, 

And  the  world  and  we  at  play, 
Had  a  winter  in  its  whiteness 

That  I  could  not  smile  away. 

That  green  forest — from  the  shadows 
Where  that  silver  fleece  had  slept, 

Vigil  o'er  the  dreaming  meadows, 
Bands  of  blue-eyed  violets  kept ; 


THE     LAST     SNO  W- WKEATH.  155 

And  your  brow — at  once  aglow,  love, 

Fast  the  melting  winter  wept, 
And  the  last  of  all  its  snow,  love, 

Into  tearful  summer  swept. 

Mine  at  last,  you  bowed  before  me ! — 

I  could  hear  the  won  heart  beat, 
Though  the  dim  sun  trembled  o'er  me, 

Though  the  earth  swam  at  my  feet. 
Are  the  stars  already  shining? 

Ah!  the  angel  hours  are  fleet, 
When  fond  arms  are  first  entwining 

And  true  lips  first  thrilling  meet. 

On  we  sped — the  green  boughs  weaving 
Fairy  dance  on  mountain  crest ; 

On  we  fled — the  arched  wave  heaving 
In  its  exquisite  unrest ; 

Yet  no  grace  of  stream  or  tree,  love, 
In  their  sunset  glory  dressed, 


156  THE     LAST     SNOW-WREATH. 

Matched  your  white  arms  waving  free,  love, 
Or  the  tremor  of  your  breast. 

• 

Let  us  home  ! — and  cease  to  sigh,  love, 

For  the  snow-wreath  that  has  gone ; 
It  has  gone  to  gild  the  rye,  love, 

And  to  plume  the  tasselled  corn ; 
In  the  bending  wheat  to  harden, 

Or  to  scent  the  enamelled  thorn; 
It  has  gone  to  paint  the  garden, 

And  to  glisten  in  the  morn. 

Peace  to  maiden  plaint,  then,  dearest, 

That  love's  light  hath  melted  pride ; 
Gleameth  not  the  lily  fairest, 

In  the  red-rose  shadow  dyed? 
ISTot  more  pure  the  snow,  fresh  falling, 

Then  those  violets,  azure-eyed  ; 
But  the  whip-poor-will  is  calling — 

Let  us  home,  my  morning's  bride. 


MAKCELA. 

it  wrong,  dear  Lady  Abbess, 

That  I  spent  the  night  in  prayer, 
That  the  Rosary  you  gave  me 

Numbered  every  bead  a  tear  ? 
I  but  wept  until  the  Watchman 

Pausing  in  the  street  below, 
Slowly  chimed  the  midnight  ave. 

Then  I  gave  to  God  my  woe. 

Thrice  I  sued  the  Saints  for  slumber, 
Still  I  could  not  keep  away 

From  the  narrow  window  facing 
The  lit  Chapel  where  he  lay — 


158  M  AR  C  EL  A. 

Where  the  funeral  torches  flickered 
Through  the  ever-opening  door, 

As  around  their  silent  Poet, 

Pressed  the  throng  of  rich  and  poor. 


Yes,  I  meant  to  sleep,  dear  Mother, 

But  morning  came  so  soon, 
As  I  watched  that  lighted  Chapel 

Shining  back  upon  the  moon  : 
Once,  methought,  I  lay  beside  him, 

'Neath  the  sable  and  the  gold, 
Bending  o'er  my  minstrel  Father 

As  I  used  in  days  of  old  : 


And  a  light — the  same  that  trembled 
O'er  his  lips  and  o'er  his  brow, 

When  he  sang  our  San  Isidro 
With  the  Angels  at  the  plow — 


M  A  E  C  E  L  A  .  159 

And  a  smile — the  same  that  shone  there, 
"When  he  bade  the  Mother  Mild 

Plush  the  wings  that  shook  the  palm-trees 
Rustling  o'er  her  sleeping  child.  .  .  . ! 


Oh,  'tis  hard  that  all  may  follow 

The  mute  Minstrel  to  his  rest. 
Save  the  nearest  and  the  dearest, 

Save  the  daughter  he  loved  best  ! 
I  alone,  his  own  Marcela, 

Cannot  touch  dead  Lope's  bier, 
Cannot  kiss  the  lips  whose  music 

ISTone  but  Angels  now  may  hear ! 


Still  I  feel,  dear  Lady  Abbess, 

You  will  grant  me  what  you  may; 

Since  your  smile  first  hailed  me  Novice, 
It  is  fourteen  years  to-day: 


100  M  A  B  C  E  L  A  . 

Have  I  shrunk  from  fast  or  vigil, 
Have  I  failed  at  matin  bell, 

Have  I  clung  to  earthen  image 
Since  I  bade  the  world  farewell? 


Nine  long  days  I've  heard  the  tolling 

Of  the  bells  lie  loved  to  hear, 
Nine  long  days  I've  heard  the  wailing 

Of  Madrid  around  his  bier ; 
And,  to-day,  he  will  be  buried, 

For  I  catch  the  deepening  hum 
Of  the  people,  and  the  stepping 

Of  the  soldiers  as  they  come. 


Never  once  I  begged  you  lead  me 
To  the  consecrated  place, 

Where,  between  the  triple  tapers, 
I  might  gaze  into  his  face — 


M  A  R  C  E  L  A  .  1G1 

Grant  me,  then,  sweet  Lady  Abbess 

Only  tliis — but  this,  alas ! 
'JSTeath  Marcela's  cloister  window 

Let  her  father's  funeral  pass. 


Not  one  look,  not  one,  I  promise, 

For  the  Princes  in  their  might, 
For  the  war-horse  proudly  curving 

To  the  spur  of  sworded  Knight : 
Though  all  Spain  in  tears  surround  him, 

I  shall  know  her  Minstrel  dead, 
And  my  eyes — they  will  not  wander' 

Far  from  Lope's  silver  head. 


Look,  the  Chapel  doors  are  parting, 
See  the  lifted  torches  shine, 

And  the  horsemen  and  the  footmen 
All  the  swarming  pathways  line. 


1G2  MARCELA. 

Can  it  be  ...  these  poor  tears  blind  me  .  .  .  { 
Ah,  you  knew  what  I  would  pray, 

And  have  granted  ere  I  asked  it — 
Yes,  they  come — they  come  this  way ! 


SHE    WILL   EETUEX. 

LAUGH  thy  bold  laugh  again: 

Men  must  not  mourn, 
Not  though  they  love  in  vain — 

She  will  return. 

Moping  and  mute — for  shame! — 

"Women  all  spurn 
Lovers  so  true  and  tame — 

She  will  return. 

Thou  with  that  stalwart  form, 

Bent  like  the  fern  ? 
Oak  should  defy  the  storm — 

She  will  return. 


SHE      WILL      RKTUKX. 

Snap  the  bright  silver  tlirall : 

Hast  tliou  to  learn 
No  woman's  worth  it  all  ? — 

She  will  return. 

"Why,  were  it  Helen  dead, 

Sealed  in  an  urn, 
Should  half  these  tears  be  shed?- 

She  will  return. 

Pshaw,  put  this  folly  by: 

Canst  not  discern 
Scorn  in  thy  neighbor's  eye? — 

She  will  return. 

Maidens  are  merriest  while 

Lovers  most  yearn: 
Not  even  force  a  smile! — 

She  will  return. 


SHE      WILL      RETURN.  165 

Fie,  what  a  fool  art  thou : 

When  the  leaves  burn 
Bound  the  ripe  autumn's  brow, 

She  will  return. 


"UNDER   THE    TREE,    LOYE." 

UNDER  the  tree,  love, 

Under  the  tree, 
Were  we  not  merry, 

Sunset  and  we  ? 
Dark  in  the  valley 

Lay  the  dim  town, 
"We  had  just  stolen 

Forth  from  its  frown. 

Under  the  tree,  love, 

Under  the  tree, 
Swearing  sweet  friendships, 

April  and  we : 


UNDEK  THE  THEE,  LOVE.     16 , 

South  winds  to  fan  us, 

Song-birds  to  greet. 
Blossoms  above  us, 

Buds  at  our  feet. 


Under  the  tree,  love, 

Under  the  tree, 
On  our  green  carpet, 

Nature  and  we ; 
Bright  o'er  the  river 

Floats  a  far  sail — 
Why  turns  thy  lover 

Asudden  so  pale  ?   .   . 


Under  the  tree,  love, 

Under  the  tree, 
"Why  is  he  gazing 

T'ward  the  green  sea  ? 


168  UNDER     THE     TKEE.     LOVE, 

Chirps  the  cicala 
'Mid  the  mute  cells — 

Is  it  old  Giotto 
Ringing  his  bells  ? 


Under  the  tree,  love, 

Under  the  tree, 
"Why  am  I  trembling, 

Answer  for  me? 
Doth  the  sea  beckon  ? 

Love  at  the  oar, 
Pate  at  the  rudder, 

Fatal  the  shore  I 


Under  the  tree,  love, 
Under  the  tree, 

Grandly  above  us 
Spreads  a  blue  sea: 


UNDER  THE  TREE,  LOVE.     169 

Two  silver  beacons 

Sphered  in  the  skies, 
Eve  in  her  cradle, 

Opening  her  eyes. 


Under  the  tree,  love, 

Under  the  tree, 
All  the  stars  watching 

You,  love,  and  me: 
Stars  that  would  follow  us 

Over  the  wave, 
Eyes  that  would  haunt  us 

Down  to  the  grave. 


Under  the  tree,  love, 

Under  the  tree, 
"  Choose  !   we  must  choose  now — 

Choose  either  sea  !  " 


170      UN  DEB  THE  TREE,   LOVE 

"  Turn  from  the  white  sail 

Fluttering  by, 
Watch  those  twin   beacons 

Sphered  in  the  sky  !  " 


SAN  SISTO. 

THREE  hundred  years  the  world  has  looked  at  it 
Unwearied, — it  at  Heaven ;   and  here  it  hangs 
In   Dresden,  making  it  a  Holy  City. 
It  is  an  old  acquaintance :   you  have   met 
Copies     by    thousands, — Morghens     here     and 

there, — 

But  all  the  sunlight  withered.      Prints,  at  best 
Are  but  the  master's  shadow — as  you  see. 
I  call  that  face  the  holiest  revelation 
God  ever  made  to  genius.     How  or  why, 
When,   or    for   whom  'twas   painted,  wherefore 

ask? 

Enough  to  know  'tis  Raphael,  and  to  feel 
His  Fornarina  was  not  with  him,  when 


172  SAN     SI8TO. 

Spurning  the  slow  cartoon  he  flashed  that  face, 
That  Virgin  Mother's  half  transfigured  face, 
On    canvas.     Yes,    they  .say,   'twas    meant  to 

head 

Some  virginal  procession: — to  that  banner 
Heaven's   inmost  gates   might  open,  one  would 

think. 

But  let  the  picture  tell  its  story — take 
Your  stand  in  this  far  corner.      Falls  the  light 
As  you  would  have  it  ?     That  Saint  Barbara, — 
Observe  her  inclination  and  the  finger 
Of  Sixtus  : — both  are    pointing — where  f — Now 

look 
Below, — those   grand   boy-angels; — watch   their 

eyes 
Fastened — on    whom? — "WTiat,    not    yet    catch 

my  meaning  ?  .  .  . 

Step  closer, — half  a  step — no  nearer.     Mark 
The  Babe's  fixed  glance  of  calm  equality. 
Observe  that  wondering,  rapt,  dilated  gaze, 


SAN     SISTO.  173 

The  Mother's  superhuman  joy  and  fear, 
That  hushed — that  startled   adoration  !    "Watch 
Those  circled  cherubs  swarming  into  light, 
"Wreathing  their    splendid    arch,    their    golden 

ring, 

Around  the  unveiled  vision.     Look  above 
At  the  drawn  curtain! — Ah,  we  do  not  see 
God's  self,  but  they  do: — they  are  face   to  face 
"With  the  Eternal  Father! 


Sir,  'tis  strange: 
That    wondrous    Virgin    face,  which    Eaphael 

plucked 

From  his  vast  soul  four  centuries  ago, 
Is  breathing  now, — not  in  his  Italy — 
But  on  the  shores  where  then  first  flashed  the 

sail 

Of  Genoa's  ocean  Pilot.     Years  ago, 
"We  met  mid-heav'n  like  drops  of  summer  rain 


SAN     S  I  S  T  O  . 


Then,  falling,  parted  !  —  But  —  observe  the  picture  : 
Am  I  not  right  ?  —  Just  —  just  before  them  burns, 
Viewless  to  us,  the  unveiled  Omnipotent. 
Tet,  somehow,  critics  fail  to  see,  or  say  this. 


THE    ALBATROSS. 

"  THINK  of  me  often  " — With  a  smile 

You  said  it,  fair  Lady,  for  you  knew 
That  everywhere  and  everywhile 
I  think  of  you. 

Have  you  forgotten,  though  years  ago, 

A  summer's  evening  walk  of  ours, 
When  earth  was  vocal  and  aglow, 
"With  birds  and  flowers  ? 

The  sun  was  printing  his  parting  kiss 

On  the  cross  of  the  Convent  spire, 
The  brook  bounded  by  with  a  laugh  of  bliss 
And  eyes  of  fire. 


176  THE     ALBATROSS. 

The  lark  slid  lazily  to  his  nest, 

His  matin  music  still, 

The  mourner  minstrel  wooed  in  the  "West — 
The  whip-poor-will. 

A  star  stole  timidly  to  its  place, 

And  stood  fast  in  the  deepening  blue, 
And  you  bent  your  head,  while  over  your  face 
An  arch  smile 'flew  : 

For  my  love  was  born  with  that  tell-tale  star 

In  the  holy  hush  of  even, 
Timidly  stealing  to  earth  from  afar — 
The  far,  high  Heaven. 

And  you — how  you  lingered  laughingly  by 

That  peaceful  convent  gate, 
Then,  turning  from  me  your  beautiful  eye, 
Left  me  desolate ! 


THE     ALBATROSS.  ITT 

Since  then,  since  there,  through  joy  or  care, 

Through  loving,  loathing,  hate, 
Have  I  thought  of  you,  blooming,  young,  and  fair, 
At  that  Convent  gate. 

The  storm  of  manhood  has  come  and  gone, 

I  have  fronted  many  a  fate, 
But  I  never  forgot  the  star  that  shone 

o 

O'er  that  Convent  gate. 

Ah,  you  knew  it  well,  for  the  proud  lip  curled 

At  a  love,  mute,  hopeless,  true  ; 
You  knew  that  I  wearily  walked  the  world, 
Thinking  of  you : 

Thinking  of  you  these  long,  lost  years 

Of  penury,  peril,  pain  : 

Thinking  of  you  through  sunshine  and  tears — 
Thinking  in  vain  ! 


ITS  THE     ALBATBOS3. 

* 

"White,  lonely,  changeless,  beautiful, 

Amid  life's  tempest-toss, 
Your  image  tranquilly  sleeps  on  my  soul- 
Its  Albatross. 


BEATRICE. 

"WELL,  as    tliou    wilt, — but    them    art    lovener 

now 

Than  ever  yet, — eyes  softer  shining, — brow 
Fuller  of  thoughtful  light;  and,  whether  less 
Thy  loving  then,  a  nobler  tenderness 
Now    tunes    thy  voice    and    fires    thy  velvet 

cheek. 

I  shall  obey : — but  I  may  sometimes  seek 
Leave  to  return,  for  in  my  journeying 
I  shall  grow  weary,  and  no  other  spring 
Can  quench  my   thirst; — besides,  I  shall    have 

fears 
For  thee,  for  tliou   hast  lost  the  gift  of  tears, 


180  BEATRICE. 

And  thy  fixed  eyes  look  steadfastly  at  woe, 
Too  long  beheld,  and  fill,  but  ne'er  o'erflow. 
When  the  dull  days  creep    on, — no   more,    no 

more, 

The  swift  step  on  thy  staircase,  at  thy  door, 
The  quick,  sure  tap, — the  strong  hand  lightly  laid 
In  thine  a  moment, — may  it  not  be  said 
"  There  sits  she  sighing  in  her  solitude 
For  her  lost  Minstrel, — she  has  dearly  rued 
Her  late  resolve,  too  late  deferred  to  save : — 
Poor   child,  there   will  be  roses  on  her    grave 
Ere    springtime!"    Thus  'twould   please    them 

best. 

— But,  sweet, 

"When  in  the  twilight,   by  my   vacant   seat, 
Thou'rt  lying,   and  the  crimson   cushion  hides 
In  thy  brown   ringlets, — when  the  river  glides, 
Dimmed  with  thy  shadow  only, — when  the  stone 
Carved  with  thy  symbol  name,  by  thee  alone, 


BEATRICE.  181 

Is  visited, — it  seemeth,  lady,  then 
Thou  may'st  have  need  of  me — that  once  again, — 
Nay,  hist ! — I  doubt  thee  not.     I  know  of  old 
Thy  grand  defiant  brow, — thy  bearing  bold 
In  sorrow's  night, — -the  step  elastic, — gaze 
Starward  unmovingly, — the  song  of  praise 
Hymned  to  the  angels : — they  will  care  for  thee, — 
"What   need   of  mortal  love  !     Yet  could  it  be 
That    some     soft    vesper-time,    when    incense 

wreathes 

Thy   chapel,  and  the  rustic   anthem  breathes, 
Or  some  fair  summer's  night,  when  laid  at  rest, 
Thou  and  thy  cross   of  gold,  an  instant  guest, 
I   might  steal  up   and  whisper,   Peace ! — 


Not  yet — 

Bear  with  me,  love,  a  moment  longer, — let 
This  white  hand  slumber  on  in  mine,  and  place 
Thy  head  against  my  shoulder,  with  thy  face 


182  B  E  A  T  i:  i  c  i: . 

Upturned ! — There, — stir  not, — sleep  !     'Tis  like 

a  trance, 
That    night    of    our   first    meeting,   -when    the 

dance 

Flashed  by  unheeded ;  like  a  dream,  the  morn 
"When, — brighter  sunrise! — silently  was  born 
Thy  bountiful,  broad  love ;   and  the  far  seas, 
Where  in  the  shadow  cf  the  Pyrenees, 
My  soul  first  climbed  the  heights  of  thine,  and 

gave 

Thee  back  an  equal  guerdon ;   and  the  wave 
Repassed,  the  fleet  five  years  of  Paradise, — 
The  Eden  that  was  ours, — until,  with  eyes 
Opened  to  sudden  knowledge,  at  our  love's 
Stern     strength,    we    trembled.       Through    the 

evening  groves 

There  swept  no  angry  challenge,  but  the  low 
Grand  voice  upbraided  tenderly:  for  though 
Our  lips  oft  drank  the  dews,  we  never  ate 
The  fruit  of  that  fair  tree;   and  at  the  gate, 


BEATRICE.  183 

The  Angel,  smiling,  sank  his  fiery  brand 
In  pity  as  we  passed, — not  hand  in  hand, 
But  parting  in  the  wilderness 


Sleep  on, 

My  lost  one, — each  will  walk  the  world  alone, 
Since  Heaven  so  wills  it:  with  thy  daily  cares 
Thou  wilt  deal  calmly,  and  thy  guardian 

prayers 

Shall  follow  me,  that  I  may  sometimes  find 
Grandeur  in  nature,  fragrance  in  the  wind, 
Beauty  in  woman,  gentleness  in  man  ; 
For  O,  it  seems  as  if  the  stream  that  ran 
Beside  my  soul  were  dry,  and  all  things  have 
A  withered  look:   the  sunbeam  in  the  wave 
No  longer  dances, — the  cold  clouds  refuse 
Their  sunset  glow, — the  unsought  roses  lose 
Their  perfumed  blushes, — dimly  wandereth 
The  moon  amid  the  tree-tops,  pale  as  death, 


184:  BEATRICE. 

Weary  and  chill, — and  I  can  scarce  rejoice 
In  music's  benediction,  and  the  voice 
Of  friendship  sounds  like  solemn  mockery. 
"Why,  e'en  the  tingling  cheek  and  soaring  eye 
Of  genius,  visioned  with  some  splendid  dream, 
Seem  scenic  tricks : — unwooed,  unwelcome  gleam 
The  plumed  thoughts, — nor  have  I  heart  to  win 
The  broidered  butterflies  we  catch  and  pin 
To  poet  desks,  in  boyhood.     Yet  fear  not 
The  future:   I  shall  bravely  front  my  lot, 
"With  the  one  rapture  manhood  ne'er  foregoes, 
The  stately  joy  of  mastering  its  woes. 
No  eye  shall  see  me  falter, — I  shall  ask 
No  respite  on  the  wheel, — whatever  the  task 
The  circling  days  appoint,  I  humbly  trust 
For  strength  to  do  it: — there  shall  be  no  rust 
On   sword   or   shield, — howe'er    the   heart  may 

ache 
Beneath    the    goad;    yet,    sweet,  for    thy    dear 

sake 


BEATRICE.  185 

111  wear  the  yoke,  until  the  furrow  opes 
A  little  deeper, — then  we'll  end  it,  hopes 
And  fears. 


Yet  sometimes,  when  the  old  desire 
Of  rhyming  comes,  and  the  familiar  choir 
Of  cherub  voices,  with  returning  song, 
Make  my  sad  chamber  musical ;  when  throng 
The  cloistered  faces,  with  uplifted  veil, 
Each  with  remembered  smile, — serene  and  pale, 
As  those  stone  priestesses  that  walk  in  Eome 
And  Florence,  shall  thy  living  image  come 
And  stand  before  me,  motioning  the.  rest 
Away.     And  I  believe — O !   stir  not,  lest 
"Waking  bring  utter  anguish — that  when  years 
The   morning    years    of    life,  have  passed,  and 

tears 

And  time  and  sorrow  shall  have  so  o'erthrown 
The  temple  of  thy  beauty,  that  unknown 


186  BEATRICE. 

We  two  may  walk  the  ways  where  now,  alas! 
The  finger  follows,  and  false  Avhispers  pass 
'Twixt  smiling  friends, — when  perished  youth's 

last  charm, 
E'en  they  who  blamed  us  most,  exclaim,  AVhat 

harm 

In  their  now  meeting? — let  me,  love,  believe 
This  parting  not  for  ever — that  some  eve 
Like    this,    I     may    approach    thee,    kneeling 

smooth 
Thy  loose  brown  hair,  warm  thy  cold  fingers, 

soothe 

The   aching  bosom,  lay  my  hand  upon 
Thy  brow,  and  touch  these  dear  lips — thus.— 

Sleep  on! 


LA  VELATA. 
PITTI   PALACE— No.   245. 

You  tread  upon  graves,  my  Lady, 

And  walk  where  you  will,  my  sweet, 
You  will  still  leave  a  ruined  life,  or  two, 

Like  mine  lying  under  your  feet. 
Yet  your  glance  is  as  clear  and  cloudless, 

You  carry  as  happy  a  head 
As  the  vestal  whose  torch  lit  the  altar  stone 

"While  the  hearts  of  a  hecatomb  bled. 

Hail,  Queen  of  the  Dead,  my  Lady, 
Of  dead  hearts  that  beat  sullenly  on, 

Waking  once  a  year  in  a  living  tomb 
To  ache  for  the  smile  that  is  gone. 


188  LA     VELATA. 

Sweep  on  with  your  laugh  of  music, — 
But,  wander  wherever  you  may, 

Some  new  grave  will  open  beneath  your  feet, 
And  the  Black  Cross  still  mark  your  way. 


THE  BIED'S  SONG. 

To  SING  was  my  only  duty, 

So  I  sang  for  you  all  the  day; 
But  there  fell  a  silence  with  the  night, 

And  my  voice  it  has  passed  away : 
A  silence  fell  with  the  falling  night, 

And  with  it  an  icy  pain, 
So  I  folded  my  head  beneath  my  wing, 

Never  to  sing  again. 

And  when  morning  broke  without  my  song 

You  flew  to  your  minstrel  dead, 
And  smoothed  the  wings  that  were  folded  fast 

While  a  tear  or  two  you  shed ; 


100  THE    BIRD'S    SONG. 

I  knew  you  would  miss  me,  mistress  mine, 
When  my  little  house   would  be  still ; 

Miss  the  fitful  gleam  of  my  yellow  breast 
Through  the  wires, — and  the  greeting  bill ! 


Put  your  mouth  to  mine, — did  I  sit  and  sing 

On  my  perch  all  the  seasons  through, 
In  that  painted  cage, — with  a   useless  wing 

And  a  ceaseless  song  for  you? — 
But,  there  were  times  when  I  saw  my  mates 

Sweep  by  with  the  glittering  spring, 
Trilling  their  loves  in  the  blossoming  groves, 

And  then — it  was  sorrow  to  sing. 


But  now  that  I  never  shall  sing  again, 

Lay  me  beneath  a  tree, 
Where  the  minstrels  that  never  knew  the  cage 

May  gather  and  sing  for  me : 


THE    BIED'S    SONG.  191 

I  cannot  leave  you  my  voice,  Lady, 
But  my  plumage  tenderly  touch,— 

These  feathers  of  gold  are  little,  Lady,— 
But  who  else  can  leave  you  as  much? 


INKEBMANN. 

i. 

IN  marble   Sebastopol 

The  bells  to   cliapel   call : 
Our   outposts  hear  the   chanting 

Of  monks   within   the  wall. 
"Why  meet  they  there,  with  psalm  and  prayer  ? — 

'Tis  some  high  festival. 
By  the   old   Achaian  ruin 

Why  groan  those  heavy  wheels  ? 
Some  forage  freighted  convoy 

Toward  the  leaguered  city  steals. 
Sleep  ! — will  the  serfs  twice  routed 

Dare  the  freeman's  steel   again, 
Will  the  slaves  we  stormed  from   Alma 

Beard  the  lion  in  his  den  ? 


INKEKMAKN.  193 

n. 

'Tis   a  drizzling   Sabbath   day-break, 

Cheerless  rings  the  reveille*, 
Through  the  shroudlike   mists   around  us 

Not   a  stone's  throw  can  we  see  : 
Feebly  up   the   clouded  welkin 

Toils  the   morning  bleak   and   gray, 
Dim   as  twilight  in  October, 

Dawns  that   dark   and   dismal   day. 
The   camp   once  more  is  sounding, 

Slowly  putting   on  its   strength, 
As   a  boa,  starved   from   torpor, 

Half  uncoils  its   lazy  length. 
Some  are   drying   their   damp   muskets, 

Others  gloss  the  rusted  steel, 
Some  are  crouching   o'er   the  watch-fires 

At  the  hurried  matin   meal  : 
Some  are  bending  o'er  their  Bibles, 

Others  bid  the  beads  of  Rome, 


194:  INKEEMANN. 

Many,  still  unwaken'd,  hearken 

To  the   Sabbath  bells  of  home. 
The  mountain  and  the  valley 

"With  the  hoary  haze  are  white, 
Sea  and  river,  friend   and  foeman, 

Town  and  trench   are  hid   from   sight 
And  the  camp  itself  so  softly 

With  the  snowy  mist  is  blent, 
Scarce  the  waving   of  the   canvas 

Shows  the  outline   of  the  tent. 

in. 

Hark,  the  rifle's  hawklike  whistle! 

But  we  stir  not  for   the   din, 
Till  with  sullen  step  the  pickets 

Prom  the   hills   are   driven  in, — 
Till  the  river  seemed  to  thunder 

Through  its  rocky  pass  below, 
And   a  voice  ran  through  the   army, 

"  Up  to  arms  !— it  is  the  foe  !" 


INKEKMANN.  195 

Up  with,  the  Bed   Cross  banner, 

Out  with  the  victor  steel, 
"  Up  to  Battle,"  the   drums  rattle, 

"  Form   and,  front,"  the  bugles  peal. — 
From  the  tents   and  from  the  trenches, 

From  the  ramparts,  from  the  mine, 
We   are  groping  for  the  bayonet, 

We   are  straggling  into  line; 
Half  attired   and  half  accoutred, 

Spur  the   officers  headlong, 
And  the  men  from  slumber  starting, 

Round  their  colors  fiercely   throng. 
Then  the  lit  artillery's   earthquake 

Shook  the  hills  beyond  the  gorge — 
Mute  were  then  a  thousand  hammers 

Smiting  hard  the  sounding  forge. 
Full  upon  us  comes  the  ruin, — 

They  have  ranged  the  very  spot, — 
Purple  glares  the  sod  already, 

As  the  storm  falls  fast  and  -hot, 


196  INKEKMANN. 

At  our  feet  the  earth  foams  spraylike 
'Neath  the  tempest  of  their  shot. 

IV. 

Crouched  like  caged   and  fretted  lion, 

For  the  unseen  foe  we  glare, — 
Not  a  bayonet,  not  a  sabre 

Through  the  rolling  mists   appear. 
Yet  full  sure  the  slaves   are  on  us, 

For  along  the  river's  bed 
Tolls  the  low  and  measured  thunder 

Of  a  mighty   army's  tread. 
The  hearts  beneath   our  bosoms 

Swell  high  as  they  would  burst, 
"We  know  not  what  is   coming, 

But  we  nerve  us  for  the  worst : 
Fast  our  shoulders  grow  together, 

Firm  beneath  that  iron  hail, 
The  thin  red  line  is  forming, 

That  was  never  known   to  quail. 


INKEEMANN.  197 


Up  from  the  slopes  beneath  us 
Nearer  thrills  the  muffled  hum, 

They  are  stepping  to  the  onset, 
"Without  trumpet,  without  drum, 

And  we  clutch  our  pieces  tighter,- 
Let  them  come ! 

v. 

The  fog  before  us  deepens  : — 

Like   a  dark  spot  in   a  storm, 
Along  the   mist-wreathed  ridges, 

Their  crowded   columns  form : 
The  helmets   and  the  gray-coats 

Scarce  pistol-shot  ahead, — 
They  are  on  us — let  us   at  them — 

Unavenged  we  have  bled  ! 
Steady  !    The  eager  rifle 

Is  warming   at  our  cheeks  ; 
Yon  column's  head  is  melting 

As   the  levelled  minie"  speaks. 


198 


Forward,  forward,  form   and  forward  '.- 

Fast   as  floods  through   river  sluice, 
The  yeomanry  of  England 

On  the  Muscovite   are  loose. 
What,  bide  they  there  to  meet  us, 

That  phalanx  of  gray  rock  ? 
In  vain  !     No  human  bulwark 

Can  breast  the   coming  shock. 
At  them  —  on  them  —  o'er  them  —  through  them, 

The  Red  Line  thunders  still  ; 
'A.  cheer,  a  charge,  a  struggle, 

And  we  sweep  them  from  the  hill. 
Not  a  man  had  we  left  living 

Of  the  masses  marshalled  there, 
But  their  siege-guns  in  the  gorges 

Stay  our  conquering  career. 
Then,   as  we  breathe  from  slaughter, 

And  ere  we  close  our  ranks, 
The  foe,  one  column  routed, 

Hurls  a  fresh  one   on  our  flanks. 


INKERMANN.  199 

Unappalled   and   unexhausted, 

We  welcome  the   new  war, 
Though  like  locusts  in  midsummer 

Swarm  the   legions   of  the   Czar. 
Fifty  thousand  men   are   on   us, 

Scarce   a  tithe   of  them   are   we, — 
"Well  might  they  swear   to   drive   us 

Ere  nightfall  to  the  sea. 
Yet,   St.    George   for   merry   England  ! 

A  volley,  and  we   close, 
'Neath  the  martyr   cross  of  bayonets, 

Redder  yet  the   Red   Line  grows, 

VI. 

These  are   not  the   men   of  Alma, 
Who   are   now  so  well   at  work ; 

On  the   Danube,   at  Silistria, 

They  have  schooled  them  'gainst  the  Turk  ; 

O'er  the   mountains   of  Circassia 

Their   black   eagles   they  have   borne, 


200  INKEBMANtf. 

And  the  children  of  their  High  Priest 

Lead  the  stern   fanatics   on. 
Point  to  point  and  breast  to  bosom, 

Hand  to   hand  we  madly  clinch, 
And  the  ground  we  win  upon  them 

Is  disputed  inch  by  inch. 
The  warrior  blood   of  Britain 

Never  rained  so  fast  a  tide, 
Man   and  captain  fall   together, 

Peer   and  peasant,   side  by  side. 
We  have  routed  thrice   our  number, 

Still  their  front  looms  thrice  as  vast, 
While   our  line  is  thinned   and  jaded 

And  our  men   are   falling   fast. 
Upon  them  with  the  bayonet ! — 

Our  powder  waxes  scant — 
What  more  with  foe  so  near  him 

Does  British  soldier  want  ? 


IKKEBMAKN.  201 

vn. 

Once  more — once  more,  borne  backward 

Their  stubborn  legions  fly, 
And  we  saw  our  brave  commander, 

"With  his   staff,  come  riding  by; 
Calmly  he  dared  the  danger, 

But  a  gloom  was  in  his  eye, 
For  the  mounds  of  his   dead  soldiers 

Lay   around  him  thick   and  high. 
God  knows  his  thought ! — It  might  be 

Of  other  mounds,  I  ween,— 
Of  parapets,  which,  mounted, 

Such  havoc  had  not  been. 
But  in   brunt  of  battle  ever 

Was  the  Saxon  bosom  bare. 
So  we  hailed  him,   as  he  passed  us, 

"With   a  hearty  English  cheer  ; 
And   as  the  nobles  round  him 

Were   falling,  did   we  pray, 


202  INKEBMANN. 

That  his  hero  life   amid  the  strife, 
Might  be  spared  to  us  that   day. 

O   dark   the   cloud  that  rested 
On   our  chieftain's   anxious  brow : 

He    has  staked  his  all  on  the  Spartan  wall- 
It  must   not   fail  him  now ! 

Till. 

Then,  as  waveless  in  the  tempest 

Broods  the  white   wing   of  a  gull, 
O'er  the  hurricane   of  battle 

Swept   a  momentary  lull. 
Countless  lay  the   dead   and   dying, 

Few  and  faint  the  living  stood, 
Every  blade  of  grass  beneath   us 

Had  its   drop  of  hero  blood. 
To  our  knees  the  stiffening  bodies 

Of  our  fallen   comrades   rose 
But  higher,   deeper,  thicker, 

Lay   the  holocaust   of  foes. 


INKER  MANN.  203 

And   so   fast  the   gore   of  Russia 

From  the   British  bayonet   runs, 
Trickling  down   our   dinted  rifles, 

That  our  hands  slip   on   our  guns. 
Far   along  the  scarlet  ridges 
•  Looming   dim  through  mist   and  smoke, 
In  scattered  groups,   divided 

By  coppice   and   dwarfed   oak, 
Rests   the  remnant  of  our   army, 

Rests  each  motley  regiment, 
Coldstream,  Fusileer,   and  Ranger, 

Line,  and   Guard  together  blent, — 
To  the  charge  still  sternly  leaning, 

Undismayed,  undaunted   still, 
Grimly  frowning   o'er  the  valley, 

Proven  masters  of  the  hill. 
A   windgust  from  the  mountain 

Swept  the   driving  rack   away, 
And  we  saw  our  battling  brothers 

For   the  first  time   that   dark  day. 


204:  INKEKMANN. 

But   as  up   the   white  shroud   drifted, 

St.  George,  what  sight  beneath ! — 
'Twas   as  when   the  veil   is  lifted 

From  the  stony   face   of  death. 
Right  before  us,  right  beneath   us, 

Right  around  us,    everywhere, 
The  fresh  hordes  of  the   Despot 

On  flank   and   centre  bear: 
Around  us  and   about  us 

The   armed  torrent  rolls, 
As  around   a   foundering   galley 

Glance  the  fins   of  bristling   shoals. 
O  never,  England,  never, 

Though   aye   outnumbered  sore, 
Has  thy  world-encountering  banner 

Faced  such  fearful   odds  before ! 

IX. 

On  they  come,   like   crested   breakers 
That   would   whelrn   us  in   their   wrath, 


INKERMANN.  205 

Or  the  winged  flame  of  prairies 

Whirling  stubble  from  its  path. 
But  with  cheer  as  stout  as   ever 

To  the  charge   again  we  reel, 
Again  we  mow  before   us 

Those  harvests  of  stiff  steel. 
Too  few,   alas!  the  living 

These  hydra  hosts  to  stem, 
But  our  comrades  lie   around  us, 

We  can   sleep   at  last  with  them. 
Rally,   Britons,   round  your  colors, 

And  if  no   succor  near, 
Then   for   God,   our  Queen,   our   country 

Let  us  proudly  perish  here  ! 
Each  hand   and  foot  grows  firmer 

As  they  yell  their  demon   cry, 
Each  soldier's  glance  grows  brighter 

As  his  last   stern   task   draws   nigh ; 
By  the   dead  of  Balaklava 

We  will   show  them  how  to   die !  . 


206  INKERMANN. 


X. 


Heard  ye  not  that  tramp   behind   us  ?  .  . 

If  a  foeman   come   that   way, 
"We  may  make   one   charge   to   venge   us, 

And  then  look   our  last  of  day. 
As  the  tiger  from  the  jungle, 

On   the  bounding  column   comes  ; 
We  can  hear  their  footfall  ringing, 

To   the   stern  roll   of  their  drums ; 
We  can   hear  their  billowy   surging, 

As  up   the  hill   they  pant, — 
O  God  !  how  sweetly  sounded 

The  well-known   "  En  avant  !  " 
With  their  golden   eagles   soaring, 

Bloodless  lips   and  falcon  glance, 
Radiant  with   the  light   of  battle, 

Came  the   chivalry  of  France. 
Ah  !  full   well,  full  well  we  knew  them, 

Our  bearded,  bold  allies, 


INKEKMANN.  207 

All  Austerlitz   seemed  shining 

Its  sunlight  from  their  eyes. 
Round  their  bright   array    dividing, 

We  gave   them  passage  large, 
For   we  knew  no  line   then  living, 

Could  face  that  fiery  charge. 
One  breathing   space   they  halted — 

One  volley  rent  the  sky, — 
Then  the  pas  de  charge  thrills  heavenward 

"  Vive  VEmpereur !  "   the  cry. 
Eight  for  the  heart  of  Russia 

Cleave  the  swart   Gallic  braves, 
The  panthers  of  Alma, 

The  leopard-limbed   Zouaves. 
The  cheer  of  rescued  Britain 

One  moment  thundered  forth, 
The  next — we  trample   with  then 

The  pale  hordes  of  the  North. 
Ye  that  have   seen   the  lightning 

Through  the  crashing   forest  go, 


208  INKERMANN. 

Would  stand  aghast,  to  see   bow  fast 

We  lay  their  legions  low. 
They  shrink — they  sway — they  falter — 

On,  on ! — no  quarter  then  ! 
Nor  human  hand,  nor  Heaven's  command 

Could  stay  our  maddened  men. 
A  flood  of  sudden  radiance 

Bathes  earth   and  sea  and  sky, 
Above  us  bursts  exulting 

The  sun  of  victory. 
Holy  moment  of  grim   rapture, 

The  work   of  death  is  done, 
The  Muscovite  is   flying, 

Lost  Inkermann  is  won  1 


But  that   night   'twas   bitter  thinking, 
As  we  dug  the  deep,   dark  grave, 

That  the  mounds  then  o'er  our   comrades 
Had  been  wall  enough  to  save. 


DONNA. 

O  LADY,  in  the  morning  of  our  meeting, 

When  love  around  us,  flowerlike,  awoke, 
Bright   o'er  the    face   that    gladdened    at  my 

greeting 

The  blush  unbidden  broke, 
And  your  eyes  trembled  to  your  heart's  quick 
beating 

Whene'er  I  spoke. 

Dear  lady,  then  your  form,  so  softly  rounded, 

Still  with  a  lingering  girl-light  shone ; 
Your    lips,   whose   laugh    like    fountain-music 

sounded, 

No  sorrow  e'er  had  known, 
For  all  the  pulses  of  your  being  bounded 
To  love  alone. 


210  DONNA. 

"We  parted  then  : — and  now,  in  day's  declining, 

In  the  soul's  twilight  time  we  meet : 
Sweet,    let    me    feel    again     that    arm's    soft 

twining — 

Quick,  for  the  hours  are  fleet, 
And    I,     an    exile,    while    your     youth    was 
shining, 

Crouch   at  your  feet. 

Ah,    the    twin    roses    on    your    cheeks    have 

faded, 

Tour  brow  has  lost  its  halo-light, 
The  dewy  sunshine  of  your  glance  is  shaded 

"With  clouds  of  coming  night ; 
E'en    the    brown    splendor   of    your     hair    is 
braided 

"With  mourning   white. 

Yet  day  is  fairer  'neath  the  mountain  sleeping 
Then  when  in  orient  pomp  it  rose ; 


DONNA.  211 

The  brook  bounds   brighter  for    the    winter's 

keeping 

When  spring  unlocks  the  snows  ;  •* 

And    you    are    lovelier    now,  when,  years   of 
weeping 

Thus  smiling  close. 

O  teach  those  eyes  again  their  blessed  beam 
ing! 

Nay,  shrink  not  that  I  hold  you  fast — 
Before  us  such  a  starry  future  gleaming, 

"Why  grieve  for  mornings  past? 
Perchance    our     mingled    tears,    now    mutely 
streaming, 

May  be  the  last. 


BLIGHT  AND  BLOOM. 

i. 

DID  we  not  bury  them? 
All  those  dead  years  of  ours, 
All  those  poor  tears  of  ours, 
All  those  pale  pleading  flowers — 

Did  we  not  bury  them  ? 


Yet,  in  the  gloom  there, 
See  how  they  stare   at  us. 
Hurling  despair  at  us, 
Kising  to  glare  at  us 

Out  of  the  tomb  there! 


BLIGHT     AND       BLOOM.  213 

Curse  every  one  of  them! 
Kiss,  clasp  and  token, 
Yows  vainly  spoken, 
Hearts  bruised  and  broken — 

Have  we  not  done  with  them? 


Are  we  such  slaves  to  them  ?- 
Down  where  the  river  leaps, 
.Down  where  the  willow  weeps, 
Down  where  the  lily  sleeps, 

Dig  deeper  graves  for  them. 


Must  we  still  stir  amid 
Ghosts  of  our  buried  youth, 
Gleams  of  life's  morning  truth, 
Spices  and  myrrh,  forsooth  .  .  ? 

Seal  up  the  pyramid! 


BLIGHT     AND     BLOOM. 

n. 

Be  still,  my  heart,  beneath  the  rod, 

And  murmur  not ; 
HE  too  was  Man — the  Son  of  God — 

And  shared  thy  lot. 

Shared  all  that  we  can  suffer  here, 

The  gain,  the  loss, 
The  bloody  sweat,  the  scourge,  the  sneer, 

The  Crown,  the  Cross, 

The  final  terror  of  the  Tomb. — 

His  guiltless  head 
Self-dedicated  to  the  doom 

"We  merited. 

Then  sigh  not  for  earth's  Edens  lost, 

Time's  vanished  bliss ; 
The  heart  that  suffers  most,  the  most 

Iteeembles  his. 


SHEMSELKIHAK. 

FIKST  Afeef  spake :  "  Thy  Favorite  is  dead ! 
Touch   not    those    lips,  my  Master,    they  were 

false : 

Weep  not  for  one  who  had  no  smiles  for  thee." 
But  Haroun  said, 

His  dim  eyes  fastened  on  the  face  where  life 
And  death  seemed  striving  which  should  paint 
it  fairest, 

"Peace,  she  hath  loved!" 

Then  Wazief  spake :  "  There  was  a  Persian  dog 
Who  died  this  morning — she  has  gone  to  meet 
him: 


216  61IEM8ELNIHAR. 

To  share  his  grave,  she  leaves   a   throne  with 
thee." 
But  Haroun  said, 

"How  many  hearts  will   cease  their  beat  with 

mine, 
As   hers  with    his,   because   they    loved    their 

Caliph? 

Say,  O  ye  faithful!" 

But  Mesrour  muttered,  "  To  the  boat  with  her ! 
Those  dainty  dancing  girls  are  whispering  now 
Of  her  mad  doatmg  on  the  Persian  dog !" 
But  Haroun  said, 

"  Build  her  a  tomb  of  porphyry  and  jet, 
Where    fountains  murmur    and    where    cypress 

waves : 

Love  is  a  light  seen  once  a  thousand  years, 
And  she  hath  loved!" 


LAZAKUS. 

I  HAD  lived,  I  had  loved, 

And  had  lived  and  loved  in  vain  ; 
I  had  said  unto  my  soul, 

"  You  shall  never  love  again : 
I  can  brave  the  bitter  night, 

Bear  that  all  is  dross  and  dust, 
Dare  all  sorrows  save  the  blight 

Of  another  broken  trust." 


But  it  came,  ah,  it  came 

In  a  shape  so  sweet  and  pure, 

Never  hope  that  ever  shone 

Seemed  so  gentle,  seemed  so  sure: 


218  LAZARUS. 

For  the  winds  "without  my  will 
Bore  the  blossom  to  my  breast, 

And,  so  being  human  still, 
Where  it  fell,  I  let  it  rest. 


Soon  it  bloomed  above  my  heart, 

And  I  said,  "  At  last,  at  last 
Here's  the  rose  I  vainly  sought 

In  the  gardens  of  the  past." 
So  I  laughed  and  cried  aloud, 

"Break,  O  earth  around  me,  break, 
Away  with  worm  and  shroud, 

Lo,  I'm  living  for  her  sake  1 " 


Then  with  eyes  at  last  unclosed,; 

And  with  hands  at  length  unclasped, 
Slowly  stirring  in  my  shroud 

At  my  flower  I  feebly  grasped ; 


LAZAKUS.  219 

But  as  if  beneath  a  frost 

Shrank  the  swift-recoiling  head, 

I  had  scared  her  with  my  ghost, 
She  had  taken  me  for  dead. 


"  Ah,  my  Queen  !  ah,  my  Queen ! 

See  my  lips  are  running  red, 
They  can  kiss  back  to  your  leaves 

All  the  crimson  that  has  fled. 
"Wake,  oh  wake,  to  watch  and  wave 

O'er  my  slumbers  as  before, 
I  will  back  into  my  grave, 

I  will  never  leave  it  more." 


So  I  creep  back  to  my  tomb 

"Which  seems  twice  as  deep  and  drear, 
Though  all  fairer  for  that  frost 

Blooms  my  Queen  without  a  peer. 


220  L  A  Z  A  K  U  8  . 

Mine  alone,  till  far  her  fame 
With  each  wanton  zephyr  fled- 

Ah,  my  grave  is  still  the  same, 
But  no  rose  is  at  its  head. 


THE    IYORY    CRUCIFIX. 

i. 

"WITHIN  an  attic  old  at  Genoa, 
Full  many  a  year,  I  ween, 

Had  lain  a  block  of  ivory, 
The  largest  ever  seen. 

Though  wooing  centuries  had  wiled 

Its  purity  away, 
Gaunt  Time  had  made  a  slender  meal, 

So  well  it  braved  decay. 

If  we  may  trust  Tradition's  tongue, 

Some  mastodon  before 
The  wave  kissed  Ararat's  tall  peak, 

The  splendid  trophy  wore. 


222  THE      IVORY      CRUCIFIX. 

Certes,  no  elephant  e'er  held 

Aloft  so  rich  a  prize, 
Not  India's  proudest  jungle  boasts 

A  tusk  of  half  the  size. 

A  Monk  obtained  and  to  his  cell 

The  relic  rare  conveyed, 
And  bending  o'er  the  uncouth  block 

This  Monk,  communing,  said : 

"Be  mine  the  happy  task  by  day 

And  through  the  midnight's  gloom, 
To  toil  and  still  toil  on  until 
This  shapeless  mass  assume 

"  The  form  of  HIM  who  on  the  Cross 

For  us  poured  forth  his  blood: 
Thus  man  shall  ever  venerate 
This  relic  of  the  flood. 


THE      IVORY      CRUCIFIX. 

"  Though,  now  a  witness  to  the  wrath 

Of  the  dread  God  above, 
Changed  by  my  chisel,  it  shall  be 
The  emblem  of  His  love." 

n. 

That  night  when  on  his  pallet  stretched, 

As  slumber  o'er  him  stole 
A  glorious  vision  brightly  broke 

Upon  his  ravished  soul. 

He  sees  his  dear  Redeemer  stand 

On  Calvary's  sacred  height, 
The  Crucifixion  is  renewed 

Before  his  awe-struck  sight. 

He  sees  his  Saviour's  pallid  cheek 
With  pitying  tears  impearled, 

He  hears  His  dying  accents  bless 
A  persecuting  world: 


224:  THE      IVOKY      CRUCIFIX. 

Sees  the  last  look  of  love  supreme 
Conquering  each  acliing  sense, 

Superior  to  agony 
Its  deep  benevolence. 

in. 

The  matin  bell  has  pealed — the  Monk 
Starts  from  his  brief  repose ; 

But  still  before  his  waking  eye 
The  vivid  dream  arose. 

His  morning  orisons  are  paid, 
His  hand  the  chisel  wields, 

Slowly  before  the  eager  steel 
The  stubborn  ivory  yields. 

The  ancient  block  is  crusted  o'er 
"With  a  coating  hard  and  gray, 

But  soon  the  busy  chisel  doffs  . 
This  mantle  of  decav. 


THE     IVOKY      CRUCIFIX.  225 

And  now,  from  every  blemish  freed, 

Upon  liis  kindling  eye, 
In  all  its  pristine  beauty,  dawns 

The  milk-white  ivory. 

IV. 

The  sun  arose,  the  sun  went  down, 
Arose  and  set  again, 

But  still  the  Monk  his  chisel  plies— 
Oh,  must  he  toil  in  vain? 

Not  his  the  highly  cultured  touch 

That  bade  the  marble  glow, 
And  with  a  hundred  statues  linked 

The  name  of  Angelo. 

Perchance  some  tiny  image  he 

Had  fashioned  oft  before, 
But  art  had  ne'er  to  him  unveiled 

Her  closely  hoarded  lore. 


THE     IVOKY     CRUCIFIX. 

A  faithful  hand,  an  eye  possessed 

Of  genius'  inborn  beam, 
Or  inspiration's  loftier  light, 

Must  body  forth  his  dream. 

v. 

The  moon  has  filled  her  fickle  orb, 
The  moon  is  on  the  wane, 

A  crescent  now  she  sails  the  sky, 
And  now  is  full  again. 

But  bending  o'er  that  Ivory  block 
The  Monk  is  kneeling  there, 

Full  half  his  time  to  toil  is  given, 
And  half  is  spent  in  prayer.  ' 

Four  years  elapsed  before  the  Monk 
Threw  his  worn  chisel  by ; 

Complete  at  last  before  him  lies 
The  living  ivory. 


THE     IVOKY     CKUCIKIX. 

His  dream  at  last  is  bodied  forth, 
And  to  the  world  is  given 

A  sight  that  well  may  wean  the  soul 
From  earth  awhile  to  heaven. 

The  dying  look  of  love  supreme 
Conquering  each  aching  sense, 

Unquenched  by  burning  pain,  reveals 
Its  vast  benevolence. 

Behold  that  violated  cheek 
"With  pitying  tears  impearled, 

The  parting  lips  that  seem  to  bless 
A  persecuting  world. 

Has  not  the  light  of  page  inspired 

A  true  reflection  here, 
Does  not  the  sacrifice  of  love 

In  ivory  reappear? 


228  THE     IVOKY     CRUCIFIX. 

Is  not  the  Evangel's  sacred  page 

Translated  here  as  M'ell 
As  any  human  alphabet 

Its  glorious  truths  can  tell? 

Ye  who  would  fain  my  gaze  prevent, 

Conceal  the  Gospel  too  : 
The  mystery  recorded  there 

Is  here  but  told  anew. 


THE    KI£TG''S    SPEECH. 

I'LL  heal  the  sting, — 
Man's     sting, — the    human     sting    at    Nature's 

spring  ! 

Behold  the  Master's  Wonder-book  unrolled, 
Explore   with   gladdened    eye,   and   heart   con 
soled, — 

"  Whilst  I  its  pages  one  by  one  unfold !" 
Thus  spake  the  King. 

And  lo,  a  sheet 

Of  trembling  azure  clothes  the  mountain's  feet, 
Dark  boats  go  glancing  through  it  with  lit  oars 
Of  dripping  silver, — all  the  villaed  shores 
Repeat  themselves  in  crystal, — proudly  soars 

The  radiant  sleet 


230  THE    KING'S    SPEECH. 

Of  purple  peaks 
Beneath    whose    crests    the    mellowed    thunder 

speaks. 

Half-way  to  heaven  the  birdlike  chapel  broods. 
Soft  winds  sweep  sighing  through   the  slanting 

woods 

Between   whose    shadows   flash    the    cloud-born 
floods 

In  jewelled  streaks. — 

New  visions  throng — 
The  canvas  shifts  and  now  we  float  along, 
Rounding  a  dead  volcano  in  the  light 
Of  rising  stars,  while  every  eye  is  bright— 
Hers  brightest — as  we  hail  the  rising  night 

"With  jest  and  song. 

Sweet  vision,  say, 
Must  thou  too  like  thy  sister  pass  away? 


THE    KING'S    SP«ECH.  231 

Alas,  remorseless  liills  between  us  stride, 
As  eunuchs  gather  round  a  Sultan's  bride, 
Shielding  her  beauty  from  the  evil-eyed  ! 
Stay,  Phantom,  stay  ! — 

All  changed  again  ! 

Above  the  clouds  we  wander,  the  dim  plain 
Shrunk  to  a  garden  :   'gainst  the  bridal  sun 
Fond   snow-peaks  lean   their   livid    cheeks   and 

run 

To  earth  in  tears:   now  heaven  itself  is  won 
And  won  in  vain ! — 

Another  change. 

Between  the  twin  crests  of  a  parted  range 
The  sky  has  fallen  and  sleeps  in  silvered  blue ; 
And  here  a  Poet's  soul  comes  with  the  dew 
To  Chillon  murmuring  all  the  midnight  through 

"With  voices  strange. 


THE     KINGS     SPEECH. 

Away  ! — our  prow 
Cuts  the  crisp  wave — new  scenes,  new  lands — 

and  now 
Gleams    the    Snow    Monarch    on    his     Gothic 

throne, 

Orphaned  of  heaven  and  earth,  defiant,  lone, 
Save  when  the  sun's  last  scarlet  kiss  is  thrown 
Upon  his  brow. 

Green  seas  of  ice 

Beneath  our  guided  feet — gray  glaciers  rise 
Weeping  themselves  away,  yet  ever  fed 
By  the  fresh    tears    their  sire    is    doomed    to 

shed: 
At  last  his  awful  front  we  touch  and  tread 

Upon  the  skies. 

"  Fool,  dost  thou  cling 
Fast  to  thy  folly?    Must  the  Master  fling 


THE    KING'S    SPEECH.  233 

His  wonders  round  thy  pathway,  but  to  whet 
The  edge  of  yearning — see  thy  heart  still  set 
Upon  the  human — deeper  in  the  net?" — 
Thus  spake  the  King. 


"  What  if  I  bring 

My  unveiled  glory  to  assuage  thy  sting? 
Will  it  avail  when  thou  dost  clearly  prize 
Better  than  earth  or  heaven,  than  seas  or  skies, 
The  human  love  that  burns  in  human  eyes  ?" — 

Thus  spake  the  King. 

And  then  I  said, 
Are  not  those    eyes    thy  work — was    not    that 

head 

Cast  in  thy  mould — is  not  thy  breath  divine 
Upon  these  lips — have  not  the  Bread  and  Wine 
Retrieved  the  Fall  and  made  her  image  Thine  ? 
Hast  Thou  not  shed 


234  THE    KING'S    SPEECH. 

A  holier  grace 

Upon  her  form, — Thine  image  in  her  face, 
Is  it  not  worthier  worship  than  the  snows 
Kissed  by  the  sunset  into  domes  of  rose, 
Or  blue  lake  heaving  in  its  rapt  repose? 

Let  me  embrace 

My  lot,  and  cling 

Unto  the  human,  I  accept  its  sting : 
I've  measured  it  with  Nature  and  with  Art, 
And  find  it  next  Thee. — Frown  not  ere  we  part ! 
'  I  never   frown  upon  a  living  heart !" 

Thus  spake  the  King. 


SAID  THE  EOSE. 

I  AM  weary  of  the  Garden, 

Said  the  Rose; 

For  the  winter  winds  are  sighing, 
All  my  playmates  round  me  dying, 
And  my  leaves  will  soon  be  lying 

'Neath  the  snows. 


But  I  hear  my  Mistress  coming, 

Said  the  Hose; 

She  will  take  me  to  her  chamber, 
Where  the  honeysuckles  clamber, 
And  I'll  bloom  there  all  December 

Spite  the  snows. 


236  SAID     THE      ROSE. 

Sweeter  fell  her  lily  finger 

Than  the  Bee! 
Ah,  how  feebly  I  resisted, 
Smoothed  my  thorns,  and  e'en  assisted 
As  all  blushing  I  was  twisted 

Off  my  tree. 

And  she  fixed  me  in  her  bosom 

Like  a  star; 

And  I  flashed  there  all  the  morning, 
Jasmin,  honeysuckle  scorning, 
Parasites  for  ever  fawning 

That  they  are. 

And  when  evening  came  she  set  me 

In  a  vase 

All  of  rare  and  radiant  metal, 
And  I  felt  her  red  lips  settle 
On  my  leaves  till  each  proud  petal 

Touched  her  face. 


SAID     THE     ROBE.  237 

And  I  shone  about  her  slumbers 

Like  a  light ; 

And,  I  said,  instead  of  weeping, 
In  the  garden  vigil  keeping, 
Here  I'll  watch  my  Mistress  sleeping 

Every  night. 

But  when  morning  with  its  sunbeams 

Softly  shone, 

In  the  mirror  where  she  braided 
Her  brown  hair  I  saw  how  jaded, 
Old  and  colorless  and  faded, 

I  had  grown. 

Not  a  drop  of  dew  was  on  me, 

Never  one; 

From  my  leaves  no  odors  started, 
All  my  perfume  had  departed, 
I  lay  pale  and  broken-hearted 

In  the  sun. 


238  SAID     THE     ROSE. 

Still  I  said,  her  smile  is  better 

Than  the  rain; 

Though  my  fragrance  may  forsake  mo, 
To  her  bosom  she  will  take  me, 
And  with  crimson  kisses  make  me 

Young  again. 

So  she  took  me  .  .  gazed  a  second  .  . 

Half  a  sigh  .  .  . 
Then,   alas,  can  hearts  so  harden? 
Without  ever  asking  pardon, 
Threw  me  back  into  the  garden 

There  to  die. 

How  the  jealous  garden  gloried 

In  my  fall! 

How  the  honeysuckles  chid  me, 
How  the  sneering  jasmins  bid  me 
Light  the  long,  gray  grass  that  hid  me 

Like  a  pall. 


SAID      THE     KOBE.  239 

There  I  lay  beneath  her  window 

In  a  swoon, 

Till  the  earthworm  o'er  me  trailing 
"Woke  me  just  at  twilight's  failing, 
As  the  whip-poor-will  was  wailing 

To  the  moon. 

But  I  hear  the  storm-winds  stirring 

In  their  lair; 

And  I  know  they  soon  will  lift  me 
In  their  giant  arms  and  sift  me 
Into  ashes  as  they  drift  me 

Through  the  air. 

• 

So  I  pray  them  in  their  mercy 

Just  to  take 

From  my  heart  of  hearts  or  near  it 
The  last  living  leaf,  and  bear  it 
To  her  feet,  and  bid  her  wear  it 

For  my  sake. 


S   0   IT   G   S  . 


s  o  nsr  as. 


BEKTHA. 

BERTHA  was  close  at  his  side, 
Unloved  though  he  sought  for  a  Bride 

Like  Bertha  ; 

So  he  kept  on  seeking  and  sighing 
For  one  at  his  feet  ever  lying — 

Ah  Bertha ! 

There  she  lay  tearful  and  inute, 
Still  as  a  marble  lute, 

Pale  Bertha, 

Watching  the  dreamer  who  sought  her 
Everywhere  else  than  he  ought  to — 

Dear  Bertha ! 


FIDELIS. 

A  MAIDEN  stood  by  a  shining  stream, 

Sing  tarry,  tarry; 
Her  eye  was  rapt  in  a  sweet,  sweet  dream, 

Ay,  marry,  marry. 
A  suitor  bold  rode  merrily  by, 

"  Dream  on,"  quoth  he,  "  you  will  wake  one 

day! 

So  my  hounds  shall  hunt  and  my  falcon  fly. 
Away!  Away!" 


A  Ladye  sat  by  a  clouded  stream, 

Sing  tarry,  tarry; 
Her  heart  still  true  to  its  first  sweet  dream, 

Ay,  marry,  marry. 


F  I  D  E  L  I  8  .  245 

A  Baron  rode  up  with  liawk  and  hound, 

"  "Well,  mistress  mine,  do  you  still  say  nay  ? 
Come  !  my  lance  is  sure  and  my  steed  is  sound. 
Away  !  Away  !  " 

A  Mourner  knelt  by  a  frozen  stream, 

Sing  tarry,  tarry  ; 
Her  hair  all  white  with  a  snowy  gleam, 

Ay,  marry,  marry. 

Once  more  to  her  side  the  Baron  came 
"With  hawk    in   hand,  though  his  beard  was 


But  her  maiden  dream  was  still  the  same. 
Away  !  Away  ! 


LADY    BIRD. 

LADY  BIRD,  Lady  Bird 

Are  you  looking  for  a  nest? 
You  may  choose  around  my  mansion 

Any  spot  that  suits  you  best. 
'Xeath  the  trellis  in  the  garden 

There's  a  shadow  steeped  in  dew, 
'Neath  the  linden  by  the  grotto 

There's  another  out  of  view. 


Lady  Bird,  Lady  Bird, 
Will  you  ever  keep  away  ? 

Just  so  near,  but  never  nearer, 
Just  to-day  where  yesterday : 


LADY      BIRD.  247 

While  fo  me,  with  every  moment 
You  have  dearer,  dearer  grown, 

Till  at  last,  in  all  the  valleys, 
There's  no  music  but  your  own. 


Lady  Bird,  Lady  Bird, 

I  have  paid  you  song  for  song; 
Not  for  all  the  sun  shines  over 

Would  I  stoop  to  do  you  wrong. 
Wing  of  gold  and  voice  of  silver, 

Fly  away  for  ever  free, 
Or  teach  others  half  the  music 

That  you  might  have  made  for  me. 


SHE    TOLD    ME    NOT    TO    LOVE    JIEK. 

SHE  told  me  not  to  love  her, 
Yet  lovelier  still  she  grew  ; 

She  pointed  to  the  sky  above  her, 
Then  glided  from  my  view 
Ah !  could  I  follow  too ! 

Alack,  alack,  ah  welladay  ! 


The  years  of  love  are  flying, 
The  sun  of  love  has  set, 

The  summer  leaves  are  dying, 
But  she  is  living  yet. 
Ah !  had  we  never  met  ! 

Alack,  alack,  ah  welladay  ! 


OH !  THE  YEAE  HAS  LOST  ITS  LIGHT. 

OH  !  the  year  has  lost  its  light, 
Summer  sun's  no  longer  bright, 
Autumn  drear  and  winter  night, 

Spring  returns  in  vain : ' 
Morn  and  eve  must  come  and  fly, 
Month  and  year  must  still  go  by, 
But  the  love-light  of  her  eye 

I'll  never  see  again. 


Oh  !  the  pale  moon  overhead 
Feebly  seeks  her  fleecy  bed, 
And  the  stars  are  dim  and  dead, 
Yoiceless  is  the  sky : 


250       OH!    THE     YEAR     HAS     LOST    ITS     LIGHT. 

All  the  future  must  be  sold, 
All  the  past  remain  untold, 
Till  the  weary  heart  is  cold — 
Then  for  eternity ! 


THERE    WAS    A    TIME. 

THEKE  was  a  time  she  rose  to  greet  me, 

But  what,  alas  !  cared  I  ? 
For  well  I  knew  she  flew  to  meet  me, 

Yet  met  me  with  a  sigh. 
I  left  her  in  her  deep  dejection, 

And  laughed  with  merry  men  ; 
What  cared  I  for  her  true  affection? 

I  did  not  love  her  then. 


But  now  I  wander  weak  and  weary, 
And  what,  alas !  cares  she  ? 

I  lost  her  love,  and  life  grew  dreary, 
She  scarce  remembers  me. 


252  THERE     WAS     A     TIME. 

In  vain,  in  vain  I  now  implore  her, 
She  spurns  my  tearful  vow  ; 

Too  late,  too  late,  I  now  adore  her, 
She  does  not  love  me  now. 


BILL    AND    I. 

THE  moon  had  just  gone  down,  sir, 

But  the  stars  lit  up  the  sky, 
All  was  still  in  tent  and  town,  sir, 

Not  a  rebel  could  we  spy : 
It  was  our  turn  at  picket, 
So  we  marched  into  the  thicket, 
To  the  music  of  the  cricket 
Chirping  nigh. 


Oh !  we  kept  a  sharp  lookout,  sir, 
But  no  danger  could  we  spy 

And  no  rebel  being  about,  sir, 
"We  sat  down  there  by  and  by^ 


254  BILL      AND      I  . 

And  we  watched  the  brook  a  brawlin', 
And  counted  stars  a  fall  in', 
Old  memories  overhauling 
Bill  and  T. 

And  says  he,  "  Won't  it  be  glorious, 

When  we  throw  our  muskets  by, 
And  home  again  victorious 

We  hear  our  sweethearts  cry, 
'Welcome  back!'"— 

A  step !    Who  goes  there  ? 
A  shot — by  heaven,  the  foe's  there  ! 
Bill  sat  there,  all  composure, 
But  not  I. 

By  the  red  light  of  his  gun,  sir, 

I  marked  the  rebel  spy  : 
In  an  instant  it  was  done,  sir, 
fired  and  heard  a  cry. 


BILL      AND      I. 


I  sprang  across  the  stream,  sir, 
Oh!  it  seems  just  like  a  dream,  sir, 
The  dizzy,  dying  gleam,  sir, 

Of  that  eye ! 


A  youth,  a  very  boy,  sir, 

I  saw  before  me  lie  ; 
Some  pretty  school-girl's  toy,  sir, 

Had  ventured  here  to  die. 
We  had  hated  one  another, 
But  I  heard  him  murmur  '  Mother ! ' 
So  I  stooped  and  whispered  'Brother  !  '- 
No  reply. 


I  crossed  the  stream  once  more,  sir, 
To  see  why  Bill  warn't  by, 

He  was  sittin'  as  before,  sir, 
But  a  film  was  o'er  his  eye; 


256  BILL      AND      I. 

I  scarce  knew  what  it  meant,  sir, 
Till  a  wail  broke  from  our  tent,  sir, 
As  into  camp  we  went,  sir, 

Bill  and  I.  ' 


GABEIEL'S    SONG. 

FROM    LOKETTO. 

I  HEAR  a  sweet  voice  like  the  voice  of  a  bird, 
The  softest  and  sweetest  that  ever  was  heard  ; 
And  it  comes  from  the  sky,  from  the  blue,  blessed 


And.it  warbles,  "  Prepare,  for  the  hour  is  nigh  ;" 
And   that  voice   is   meant  for  me. 
Far,   far   away, 
Ere  another  day, 
Shall   I   be  ! 

I  see  two  sweet  wings  that  are  not  of  the  earth, 
That  shall  bear  me  aloft  to  the  land  of  my  birth, 


258  GABRIEL'S    SONG. 

Two  glittering  wings  of  the  purest  white, 
"With  each  feather  enshrined  in  a  circle  of  light ; 
And  those  wings  are  meant  for  me. 
Far,   far   away, 
Ere  another   day, 
Shall   I  be  ! 

0  the  blossoming  stars  were  my  playmates  of 

yore, 

1  shall  skim  the  bright  fields  where  I've  sported 

before, 
And  I   know   a   bright  spot  where  the   angels 

are, 

That  is  high  above  the  highest  star ; 
And  that  spot  is  meant  for  me. 
Far,   far   away, 
Ere   another  day, 
Shall   I  be! 


A     LULLABY. 

SLEEP,  my  child,  and  when  I   slumber, 

Do   not  wake   and  weep, 
Another  mother   comes  from  heaven 

To   watch   thee  when  I   sleep. 
Though  perchance  thou  mayst  not  see  her, 

She   will  still  be  nigh, 
For  she  loves   thee   dearly,   truly, 
Better   e'en   than   I. 


Sleep,  my  child,  thy  heavenly  mother 

Hath   no   need  of  rest, 
And   ever   with  the   night  she  cometh 

To   take  thee   to  her  breast. 


260  A     LULLABY. 

Thus  in  joy  and  trust   I   slumber, 

When  the  day  is  done, 
For  this  mother's  name  is  MARY, 
Jesus  is  her  Son. 


ALADDIF'S     PALACE. 


ALADDIN'S     PALACE. 

ALADDIN'S  PALACE,  in  a  single  night, 
From  base  to  summit  rose  ere  morning  light, 
A  pillared  mass  of  porphyry  and  gold, 
Gem  sown  on  gem,  and  silk  o'er  silk  unrolled ; 
So  from  the  dust  our  young  Republic  springs, 
Before  the  dazzled  eyes  of  Eastern  Kings. 
Not  like  old  Rome,  slow  spreading  into  state, 
The  century  that  freed  beholds  us  great, 
Sees  our  broad  empire  belt  the  western  world, 
From  main  to  main  our  starry  flag  unfurled ; 
Sees  in    each  port  where    Albion's   Sea-Kings 

trail 
Their  purple  plumes,  Columbia's  snowy  sail. 


2G4  ALADDIN'S    PALACE. 

Three  deep  the  loaded  deck  our   long  wharves 

line, 
Three    deep  on    buoyant   hoops    fast    flounces 

shine, 
While  thrice  three-story  brown   stone   proudly 

tells 

The  tale  of  Mammon's   modern  miracles, 
Marking  full  fifty  places  in   a  square 
Where  tho   born  beggar  dies  the  Millionaire. 


But  yet  remember,   glorious   as   we  are, 
Aladdin's  Genie  left  one   window  bare ; 
And  we,  perchance,  upon  a  close  review, 
May  find   our  Palace  lights  unfinished  too,—  • 
Some  slighted  panel  in  the   stately  hall, 
Some  broidered  hanging  stinted  on  the  wall, 
Nay,   e'en  some  jewels  gone,   that  graced   us 

wheu 
All   men  were  free  here — even  gentlemen. 


ALADDIN'S    PALACE.  265 

Of  all  the  slaves  in  social  bondage  nursed, 
PATEK-F AMELIAS   stands  supremely  first : 
Proud  of  his  bondage,  tickled  with  his  chains, 
The  parent  cringes  while  the  stripling  reigns. 
Down  with  the  Dotard !   consecrate  the  Boy ! 
Since   Age  must  suffer,  let  bright  Youth  enjoy. 
Drink  morning  in ! — old  eyes  were  meant  to 

wake: 
Shake    hands    with    ruin ! — old    hearts    never 

break. 

Welcome  the  worst — 'tis  but  to  close  the  door 
And    pack  the  outlaw  to  some  College-Cure. 
Alas  !   the  tutor  apes  the  parent  fool, 
The  idle  birch  hangs  rotting  in  the  school. 
Touch  the  young  tyrant — like  Olympian  Jove 
The  avenging  sire   defends  his   injured  love ; 
Clutches   a  cowhide,   contemplates   a  suit, 
Talks  wildly   of  a   martyr  and   a   brute. 
The  worst  disgrace  his  free-born  son  can  know 
Is  not  to   merit,  but  receive   a  blow; 


266  ALADDIN'S    PALACE. 

Honor,  that  prompts  the  pistol,  damns  the  rod, — 
Let  beasts  alone  divide  the  scourge — with  God. 

Achilles  saved,    what    next?     Go    home    and 

rear 

That  np-town  palace  ? — Why,  you're  never  there. 
Down  by  the  docks  your  home  is  o'er  the 

desk 

From  morn  to  night,  curled  like  an  arabesque, 
Spinning  the  rich  cocoon  for  child  and  wife, 
Though,  like  the  worm,  the  tribute  cost  your 

life. 

Crawl  home  at  midnight,  to  the  basement  go, 
Hug  the  lit  fender,   toast  the  slippered  toe ; 
One  well-earned   moment   rest    the    throbbing 

head, 

Though  all  the  ceiling  own  the  Lancers'  tread. 
Or  dare  the  ball-room,  you'll  not  spoil  the 

feast, 
*Tis  the   old  story — Beauty   and   the  Beast. 


That   Lion    leaning    o'er   my    Lady's    chair 
May  start — but  she    will    never    know    you're 

near. 
Perchance     some    fopling    compliments    your 

taste, 

His  easy   arm   around  Miss   Mary's   waist  ; 
Admires  your  Elliott,   wonders  how  he  caught 
Your  mouth's  full  meaning — "  Aw,  I  re-aul-ly 

thought 
Those    sheep    were    Ornmegancks ! " — Back    to 

your  den  ! 
Your    girl's     far    wiser     cheek    was     tingling 

then. 

Better   be    dead  than  ope  those  honest   eyes 
To  half  your  marble   mansion's  mysteries. 
Press  your    lone   pillow,    scheme    to-morrow's 

pelf, 

Your  daughter,  trust  her,  can  protect  herself: 
Dread  neither  foreign  Count  nor  native  Fool, 
Her  heart  was  buried  at  a  Boarding  School. 


268  ALADDIN'S    PALACE. 

Ah,  not  for  nothing   that  smooth    cheek's  de 
cay- 
She  knows  too  much  to  risk   a   runaway. 
"While    beauty    lasts,    perchance     the     Young 

Moustache 

May   spoil   the   cooing  of  the  Man   of  Cash; 
But   trust   to   time,   your    wrinkled    belle  will 

take 
Some     solid     soul — some    bank    that    cannot 

break, — 

And    reign    the    darling    of    a   dull   adorer, 
Precisely   as  her  mother  did  before  her. 

From  private  morals  pass  to  public  taste  ; 
One  jewel  missing,   can  the  next  be  paste? 
A  race   of   readers,    we   can   surely   claim 
A   dozen  writers   with  a   world-wide  name, — 
One  drama  that  can  hold  the  stage  a  season, 
Two  actors   that   confound  not  rant  with  rea 
son, — 


ALADDIN'S    PALACE.  2G9 

A  minstrel  equal  to   an   average  air, 
An   artist  that  has  brains  as  well   as  hair  ? 
Alas!  the  river  where  the  millions   drink 
Flows  from  a  Helicon  of  tainted  ink, 
Lower  and  lower  the  darkening  stream  descends, 
Till,   lost  in  filth,   the  sacred   fountain  ends. 
"Who   reads  Andrea  f — here's   a  penny  tale 
That  melts  the  milkmaid  o'er  her  foaming  pail ; 
Who  weeps  with  Lurid  that  can  weekly  sob 
With   all  the  victims  of  Sylvanus  Cobb  ? 
To  "In  JHemoriam"  why  trembling  turn 
"When  fonder  pathos  flows  from  Fanny  Fern  ? 
"Why  wake  the   organ   wail  of  Hiawatha, 
"When  piping  Publishers   assume  the   author  ? 
And  what,  in  turn,  cares  genius  for  the  age? 
Boz  gaily  rattles  off  his  five-pound  page; 
Pendennis  lazily  dictates  his  story, 
Sure   of  his   pay,    superbly   dead   to   glory; 
O'ershadowed  Browning,  sickening   in  the  va:i, 
Sheds   Ariel's   wings  to  roll  with    Caliban. 


2TO  ALADDIN'S    PALACE. 

But    peace    to     parchment — bid    the     canvas 

gleam ; 

The   pen   rebellious,  let   the   brush    redeem. 
Imperial   Art,   thy  highest   hope  record! — 
Behold   a  primrose   dots   the  dewy   sward. 
Raphael  dethroned,  what  triumphs  now  decree? 
The    twilight's    bronze    on    blossomed     cherry 

tree. 

Madonnas   done   with,   Magdalens  forbidden — 
Lo,  yonder  rock  in  reverend  mosses  hidden. 
Ah,  sweet  to  think  when  time  and  reason  blight 
The  budding  of  the  last  Pre-Raphaelite, 
Those  wondrous  Dresden  eyes  shall  still,  as  now, 
Teach  saints  to  worship,  infidels  to  bow, 
That  Babe  transfigured  on  the  Virgin  bosom 
Outlive  the  daisy  and  the  apple  blossom. 

Kings  rule  the    East,  the   Merchant   rules   the 

"West, 
Save  round  his  hearth,  supreme  his  high  behest. 


ALADDIN'S    PALACE.  271 

For  him  the  captive  lightning  rides  the  main, 
For  him  rent  mountains  hide  the  creaming  train. 
For  him  the  placer  spreads  its  golden  sands, 
The  steamer  pants,  the  spicy  sail  expands; 
For  him  the  quarry  splits  the  moaning  hill, 
For  him  Laborde  imports  her  newest  trill. 
Submissive  science  smooths  his  lordly  path, 
States    court   his   nod   and    Senates    dread  his 

wrath ; 

Erect,  undaunted,  eager,  active,  brisk, 
A  front  for  ruin,  nerve  for  any  risk ; 
Shy  of  the  snare,  impatient  of  the  chance, 
The  world  a  chess-board  'neath  his  eagle  glance, 
Armed  with  a  Ledger — presto  pass — he  carves 
And  spends  ten  fortunes  where  a  genius  starves. 
No  robber  knight  that  ever  drove  a-field 
Bore  braver  heart  beneath  his  dinted  shield. 
Atilt  with  fortune,  if  he  win  the  prize, 
The    turnpike    trembles,    marble     cleaves    the 

skies, 


272  ALADDIN'S    PALACE. 

Or,  lost  both  stirrups,  let  him  bite  the  plain, 
His  dying  song  still  "  Lobster  and  Champagne !" 


O  land  of  Lads,  and  Liberty,  and  Dollars ! 
O  Nation  first  in  schools  and  last  in  scholars! 
Where  few  are  ignorant,  yet  none  excel, 
Whose  peasants  read,  whose  statesmen  scarcely 

spell ; 

Of  what  avail  that  science  light  the  way, 
When  dwindling  Senates  totter  to  decay, — 
Like  some  tall  poplar  withered   at  the  head, 
Our  middle  green,  but  all  the  summit  dead. 
We  do  not  ask  that  mind  and  manners  meet — 
Utopian  dream — in   every  Justice   seat : 
In  troubled  times  'tis  not  to  be  expected 
That    Law    and    Grammar    be    at  once     pro 
tected  : 

We   can   endure   that  barristers   dispense 
Tropes,    neither  rhetoric  nor  common   sense, 


ALADDIN'S    PALACE.  273 

While   all  the  rabble  bolt  the  fluent  store 
Of  broken  image,  battered  metaphor, — 
But,  great  Diana    when  we're  only  known, 
In    courts    where  Adams   trod    and    Franklin 

shone, 

By  mute  Ambassadors  who  grandly  scorn    to 
Maim  any  language  save  the  one  they're  born 

to; 

Whe     laughing  Europe  vainly  would  escape 
Yankee  sublime,  refulgent  in  red  tape, 
Might    not    the  torch  that    fired  the  Ephesian 

Dome 

Be  well  employed — a  little  nearer  home? 
Of  what  avail  the  boast  of  steam  and  cable, 
If  doomed  to  grovel  'neath  the  curse  of  Babel  ? 
Low  droops  our  Eagle's  eye  to  find  us  still 
Cowed  'neath  his  wing — by  Albion's  gray-goose 

quill. 

Why  boast  of  Britain  foiled  on  Bunker  crest, 
Her  pen   still  rules  the  Rebel   of  the  West. 


27i  ALADDIN'S    PALACE. 

Yc '  who  have  sipped  the  sweet  Iloratian  page, 
And  burned   with   Juvenal   in   Roman  rage ; 
Yc '  in   whose  bosom  glows   the   true  antique, 
Whose  solid  armor's  laced  with  genuine  Greek, 
Whose  souls,  high   reaching    to    the    fountain, 

find 

The  classic  secrete  that  still  sway  mankind, — 
What  though  the  public;  hail  with  languid 

praise 

Your  prim   orations   or  primeval   lays  ; 
What  thougn  Reviews,  with  accents  soft  as  silk, 
Skim  all' your  cream  and  then  reject  your  milk  ; 
What   though    your   polished  pen    scarce   earn 

a  garret, 

While  Double  Entry  points  to  peace  and  claret ; 
What  though  the  heart,  too  long  condemned 

to  ache 

For  mocking  diaplcts,  ask  but  leave  to  break ; 
What  though  a  faction  swear  no  Papal  stone 
Shall  grace  a  pillar  vowed  to  WASIIIXGTOX — 


ALADDIN'S    PALACE.  275 

Toil   on ! — -before   tlie   crowning   cope   is  set 
That   shaft  may   need     some   Roman    Cement 

yet: 

Toil  on — toil  on — there's  no  such  word  as  fail, 
Heaven  sends  the  wind  if  we  but  set  the  sail: 
Toil   on, — the   world's   best  laurels   only  bloom 
Above    the    mound   that    marks    the    Martyr's 

tomb. 

Know  ye   the   fields   that   smooth   the   Pilgrim 

coast, 

The   lawn's  soft  slope  in    azure   Ocean  lost, 
The  garden   bounded   by   the   billow's  foam, 
The  gables  stately   as  a   Baron's  home? 
Approach :  along  the  corn-land  and  the  wold, 
October   dies  in  crimson  and  in  gold ; 
That  giant  elm   has   scarce   a  score  of  leaves 
To  shade  the   voiceless  n£st  beneath  the  eaves. 
See   the   bright   Sabbath  morning  silent   break, 
Save  where   the   wild-fowl  fans    his  tiny    lake, 


276  ALADDIN'S    PALACE. 

Save  where,  with  ceaseless  wail,  tlie  warning  sea 
Chaimts  its  one  awful  word — "JEkrnity" 
Ah,  Setli,  unload  the  rifle — coil  the  line — 
Let  the   coot  fly — the  haddock  lash  the  brine — 
O'er  the  mute  hills,  untracked,  the  wild  deer 

run — • 
The  Angler    sleeps — thy  Hunter's    deeds     are 

done  ! 

Steal  in  with  muffled  tread — the  struggle  past, 
Released  from    thought,  the  grand   brow  rests 

at  last, 

As  rests  in  Abbey  aisle  some  brave  broad  shield, 
A  nation's  buckler  on  the  battle-field. 
'No  shroud  surrounds  him — he  has  gone  to  rest, 
As  heroes  love  to  go,  in  harness  drest: 
Folded  the  hands  that  never  rose  in  wrath 
Unless  to  sweep   a  traitor  from  his  path ; 
Dim    the    dark    eye    before    whose    rapt    com 
mand 
Disunion,  like  a  spectre,  fled  the  land. 


ALADDINS      PALACE.  27  < 

God   grant  tliat  JULIA'S  self  the  father  meet 

Since  JULIA'S  image  may  no  longer  greet ! 

God  guard  that  willowed  slab  by  MARSH- 
FIELD'S  wave, 

Where  lie,  still  lives  beneath  his  laurelled 
grave  1 

God  send  some  faithful  heart,  some  fearless 
spur, 

To  fill  the  void  of  that   one  Sepulchre ! 

The  Forum  yawns !  Come  Curtius,  to  thy 
work ! 

Fate  summons  the  COLLEGIAN — not  the  Clerk. 


Green    be    the    Hero's   grave ! — But  who  shall 

paint 

Our  greater  loss — that  purer  gem — the  SAINT  ? 
We  who  are  wholly  plunged  in  pious  labors, 
Who    plume    ourselves    and    meekly   peck    our 

neighbors  ; 


278  ALADDIN'S    PALACE. 

Whose  outward   life,  so  gravely  circumspect, 
Proclaims — our  title  clear — the    sole    Elect  ; 
We  who,  knee- deep  in  spiritual  feasts, 
Bewail  the  shallower  ecstasies  of   Priests  ; 
We  who  serenely  chaunt   the  rights  of  laymen 
While  pastors  starve   and   Bishops   drudge  like 

draymen  ; 

We  have   no   sins — no   zealots   that   behold 
A    Creamcheese     in    each    shepherd     of     the 

fold- 

Xo  pale   devotes  to   chronicle  the   fancies 
That   gild   the  seraph  lips  of  Father  FrancK 
The  fiery  Frank  may  Ml,  the  Spaniard  slip, 
O'er  Pagan  shafts  the  stumbling  Roman  trip, 
The  sturdy  Belgian  truckle  to  the  State, 
But  Yankee  Papists  are  immaculate. 
We  shrink  from  Sue  and  Sand,  our  only  care  is 
To  sigh  with  Kempis,  or  to  sift  with  Suarez  ; 
With  fiction  false  to  faith  we  never  grovel, 
Our  lightest  reading,  the  religious  novel ; 


ALADDIN'S    PALACE.  279 

"We  count  our  soul-refresliing  tales  by  scores, 
Where  heroes  sin  not — save  in  being  bores ; 
Where  heroines  sing  like  controversial  linnets, 
Converting  heretics  in  twenty  minutes, — 
Here  Agnes  answers  to  the  Convent  Bell- 
There  jilted  William  meditates  a  cell. 
But  let  a  Man  stand  up  and  lash  the  age, 
Let  reason  rule  and  truth  inspire  his  page, 
Let  folly  quake  to  hear  his  lordly  tread, 
And  captive  error  hang  her  hydra  head ; 
Then,  just  so  long  as  our  celestial  selves 
Escape  a  drubbing,  BEOWNSON  tops  our  shelves ; 
But    once   the    scourge   on    our    own    shoulders 

laid — 
Stop  the  Review ! — gag  the  gray  Renegade ! 


Yes,  praised  be   type  and  steam,  our  blindness 

o'er 
The  Catholic  world  is  wiser  than  of  vore. 


280  ALADDIN'S    PALACE. 

No  simple  Barons  now  corrupt  the  Church 
By  leaving  rich  relations  in  the  lurch  ; 

No     stricken    Knight,    with    half    remembered 

prayer, 
Beats  his  broad  breast  and  makes  a  Monk  his 

heir. 

Fie,  fie,  Sir  Hugo,  like  a  cut-throat  live, 
Then,  dying,  ~bribe  thy  Maker  to  forgive? 
Tempt  not  the  skies  with  gifts,  —  we  never  do  — 
Heaven  asks  no  largess  —  just  a  tear  or  two. 
Our  peaceful  fingers  guiltless  of  the  sword, 
"What  call  for  alms  to  pacify  the  Lord? 
The   Priest   stands  ready  harnessed  —  naught  to 


Since  he  who  gave,  disdains  to  take  away. 

Let  pompous  heretics  by  will  provide 

For   School    and    Mission,  —  ice    have    no    such 

pride. 

Enough  for  us,  our  earthly  errand  run, 
To  pass  an  untithed  purse  from  sire  to  son. 


ALADDIN'S    PALACE.  281 

Too  modest  to  bestow  lest  men  applaud, 
Faith  just  too  feeble  to  invest  with  God  ; 
Just  zeal  sufficient  to  shun  godless  knowledge, 
And  just  too  little  to  endow  a  College, 
Hugo  may  pamper  Abbots  with  his  acres, 
Ours  shall  be  anybody's — but  our  Maker's. 


In  darker  Ages,  when  the  morning  dews 
Of  Faith  were  fresh  upon  the  world,  when  pews 
Were  yet  unborn,  our  simple  fathers  thought- 
Such  ignorance  belongs  to  souls  untaught — 
That  the  true  aim  of  pious  decoration 
Should  be  the  Minster — not  the  congregation. 
Since  then,  the  riper  Flock  far  wiser  grown, 
Neat  brick  and  mortar  mimic  chiselled  stone  : 
Yon  altar  angel  kneels  in  florid  plaster 
"Where  cherub  wings  once  shone  in  alabaster. 
But  let  the  ceiling  gape,  the  organ  jingle, 
The  lazy  spire  at  last  ascend  in  shingle ; 


282  ALADDIN    8    PALACE. 

Glance     down    the     nave — survey    the     sacred 

scene — 

One  billowy  sweep  of  lace  and  crinoline ; 
Each  tiny  hat  half  hidden  in  its  feather, 
Bright     as     a     daisy    beaming     through     the 

heather — 

Out  with  the  Hose  or  Oriel's  lesser  lustre, 
Here  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow  cluster. 
Yet  say  not  Faith  hath  wholly  quenched  her 

fires 

"When  Albany's  Twin  Minsters  lift  their  spires, 
When  fast  responsive  to  the  Mitre's  beck, 
Each     man    stands    ready    with    his    cheerful 

check; 

Prompt  as  the  Spartan  at  his  country's  call, 
A  hundred  come — a  hundred  thousand  fall. 

"When  the  good  Caliph  all  his  coffers  brought. 
And,   gem     in    hand,   his    turbaned    craftsmen 
wrought ; 


ALADDIN'S    PALACE.  283 

When  vainly  jewelled  with"  a  Kingdom's  store 
The    unfinished    window     clamored    still    for 

more, 

Aladdin  called  the  Spirit  that  begun 
His  radiant  Palace,  and  the  work  was  done. 
So  here  the  sail  may  gleam,  the  minstrel  sing, 
The  Forum  close,  the  victor  warrior  bring 
His  wreath, — but  still  the  Temple  of  our  sires 
An  Artist  mightier  than  man  requires. 
We  too  must  call  our  SPIRIT.     Glance  around — 
The  terrace  at  our  feet  is  hallowed  ground: 
Climb    that    green    hill, — those  levelled  walks 

that  glide 

Around  the  Chapel — by  the  torrent's  side; 
That    shaded    mound    where    still    the    Grotto 

stands — 

All  these  are  relics  now,  touched  by  the  hands 
That  led  alike  the  shriven  soul  to  grace, 
Or  smoothed  the  frown  from  Xature's    erring 

face. 


284  ALADDIN'S    PALACE. 

Question  the  valley — hear  how  oft  there  trod, 
Missal  in  hand,  along  the  weary  road, 
A  swift,  frail  shape,  on  some  new  mercy  bent, 
That  seemed  to  smile  with  angels  as  it  went. 
Go  farther — pierce  the  aching  world  beyond 
The  circle  of  those  calm  blue  lines  that  bound 
This  Sanctuary — count  the  mitres — scan 
The  vast  results  of  that  one  Heaven-sent  man  : 
Ask  mountain  laymen,  deep  in  stocks  or  deeds, 
"Wliy  still   they  wear  their   medals,  tell    their 

beads; 
Ask   that    gray  band   of  Priests  what  trumpet 

call 
Beneath    Christ's   standard   ranged    and    armed 

them  all ; 

Ask  either  Prelate  whose  command  controls 
The  Christian  being  of  a  million  souls, 
Who  first  inspired  his  half  unconscious  feet 
To  tread   the  heights  where  flamed  the  Para 
clete  ? 


ALADDIN'S   PALACE.  285 


Hark  !  Prelate,  Laymen,  Priest,  together  say  — 
The  Angel  Guardian  of  the  Mount  — 


My  friends,  Aladdin's  Palace  needs  such  men — 
The  SAINT  at  work,  'tis  finished — not  till  then. 


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